Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diesel is desire,

you were playing with fire.

And maybe it's the past that's talkin'...

—The Great War, Taylor Swift

The summer air is hot this season. Sweltering and moist, his jinbei sticks to his body like a second skin due to the immense amount of sweat flowing from his pores, but he pays it no mind. Nothing, really, courses through his head as trees pass in a blur. His feet stick to branches with relative ease as he hops from one to another far quicker than the eye can see. 

Faster.  

Running. 

He was running away.

Not that he would ever admit out loud, but… he just needed to get away for a moment and there was one place he could go. Always one place where he let his mind forget the horrors of the present and the fears of tomorrow.

He’s not a sensor by any means, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t see the boy before it’s almost too late. Body jolting, he almost slips on the last branch as he quickly halts his sprint.

Plop, plop…  

“Damn it!”

He stares across the water at an unfamiliar face. His hair protruding out from his head in spikes, long and dark. So, so dark like the most eerie of nights, yet… Hashirama thought it was captivating. His skin was pale, practically glowing in the sunlight beating down on him and a faint recognition stirs to life within him before he forcefully shoves it away.

Impossible.  

He was throwing pebbles, this boy, and failing. The frustration of the other is prevalent and Hashirama finds himself observing for a little longer. 

“Ugh, fuck!”

He blinks at the curse, brows rising before a sneaky smile lights up his features. Stealthily, he hides his chakra presence and slips around to the other side of the river. It’s unknown if this boy is a shinobi like him and it was better to be safe than sorry.

His feet are silent as they meet grass and he cautiously walks up behind.

The other rears back, hand falling into an instinctual action and Hashirama blinks in recognition.

Shinobi.  

There’s no other excuse for the way the boy is holding the stone in his hand. It was as if he were preparing to throw a shuriken instead. 

Despite this looming threat of an unknown ninja, he finds himself lingering. Instead of fleeing back to his own family and warning them of an unknown nin, he observes with an open curiosity. 

This boy, after all, was his age. No older than twelve. 

He was curious. 

The boy throws another stone but it barely manages to make it halfway across. There’s another spew of frustration that has him inching forward. His hand darts out, collecting a perfect rock for his intention and his fingers caress it silently. 

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Not really. It’s dangerous and this boy was—

Despite it, he’s drawn. 

What would it be like to speak to another person his age, not affiliated with his clan? If he kept himself a secret, maybe, just maybe, they could converse without the rules of their world interfering. Without the hate and the death clouding their vision. That was, after all, what he comes here for.

Escape.

Maybe that’s what this boy was here for too. 

Maybe they could escape together.

His hand rears back a heartbeat before it throws the stone within it. Sailing, the rock flies out and skips across the water further than the boy has ever reached.

Tiny shoulders in front of him tense and he follows too unconsciously, waiting for the boy’s reaction. Sharply, he turns and glares, and Hashirama’s momentarily dazed with the dark eyes sent his way.

“The trick is to aim slightly higher,” he states confidently when he finds his voice again, a hesitant smile playing on his features.

Dark, black eyes observe him and he finds himself holding his breath, waiting for the other’s reaction. This boy was a shinobi, unconfirmed, but Hashirama doubts his assessment. If he perceived Hashirama as a threat, it’s likely he’ll attack. Likely he’ll go for the kill even if it would probably end up in vain, but if he didn’t—

That’s what Hashirama is banking on.

Eventually, it seems the boy pushes whatever red flags that must be blasting within his own mind as he meets Hashirama’s eyes confidently before they waver slightly and look back down at the rock in his grasp.

“I know that! It’ll reach the other side if I just put my all into it.” Black eyes glance up, suspicious yet curious. “Who are you anyway?”

Brief victory fills him before slight embarrassment. What should he say? This was quite—

Impulsive.

Tobirama would reprimand him had he been present.

“Um… as of right now, I’m your stone skipping rival! Though, I suppose I’ve already surpassed you!”

The words seem to do the trick as the boy’s suspicion falls way, being promptly replaced by irritation and black eyes flare. 

“I asked your name!”

He forces himself not to react to the volume of the boy’s voice, tempering himself immediately. They stare at each other assessingly again. 

“I’m… Hashirama,” he states after a brief pause. Senju is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back furiously. 

The other’s irritation falls away at his admission, eyes flickering up and down Hashirama as if looking for any clan identifying marks. Too bad he won’t find any. Hashirama makes sure to strip himself bare of them before he comes here for times like… these if he were to meet someone unknown.

When the search comes up blank, the boy relaxes. 

“Hashirama… huh?” A pale hand grips the rock in its grasp tightly before holding it up between them. “Just watch! I’ll get it across this time!”

The other turns abruptly, throwing it as he previously has. It skips maybe four times before it plops into the water halfway over.

Amusement lights in him as they both wait a baited breath before the boy suddenly turns and yells.

“It’s because you’re standing behind me! That’s no fair!”

He startles momentarily before a wave of remorse befalls him and he crouches low to the ground, a looming cloud of doom hanging over him. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters seriously. It was his fault. If he weren’t there, the boy wouldn’t be so surprised. So pressured. 

Surprise covers the other’s features, face flickering through emotions as previous irritation falls away in a flash.

“N–No, it’s—no need to get all sad about it. Sorry. I was just makin’ excuses.”

He glances up, feeling bad still but slightly better than before.

“I had no idea you had such a self-diagnosed neurosis…”

Irritation flares to life in that dark gaze once more as his fists clench and he points.

“I can’t tell if you’re nice or a dick!”

Laughter quickly bubbles up his throat as he stands. It was refreshing, he must admit, speaking to someone his age that wasn’t his brother. Or an enemy. It was nice not to have to fight to kill for once.

“I’m still better than you!”

“How about I throw you instead,” the boy yells, temple throbbing and Hashirama feels another doom cloud befall him.

Maybe that was too far. What if the boy wants to leave after this?

Disappointment laces him as he races to make up his mistake.

“S–sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad. In reparation, I’m ready to be thrown across… go ahead now.”

“Are you aware of your own obnoxious neurosis?”

“I just hope I reach the opposite shore…”

The vein in the boy’s temple throbs harder. “You’re an eyesore! Get lost!”

He stands at the command almost unwillingly, turning on his heel. He messed up. He should repent.

A hand on the collar of his jinbei snags and halts his movements before pulling him back harshly.

“No, wait!”

He turns with an anxious look. “Which is it? Can you be clearer?” 

Something in the background garners his attention before the boy can speak further and a sadness washes over him as he recognizes a body floating down the river. His eyes flick up in the direction it must have come from and back.

I hope it’s not a Senju.  

He slides past, ignoring the boy’s protests as he steps out onto the water.

Clack, clack, clack.  

“You’re… a shinobi,” the boy mutters to himself, but he pays it no mind as he kneels next to the body. 

Hagoromo… thank the gods.  

He wasn’t eager to carry this dead man home nor was he ready to tell one of his clansmen of their loved one’s demise.

Sorrow fills him next, the longer he stares. 

This river he found months ago… it would inevitably become a battleground. A place for death and destruction. The body of water that he’s found solace in wouldn’t be that for much longer and this body was the harsh truth of reality. His reality. 

Would there ever be a time of peace?

“Go home,” he mutters, standing. “I will too.”

He hops to the opposite side, the direction which he originated from and freezes when the boy calls out to him.

“I’m… Madara, by the way.”

Surprised, he turns to see the anxious and wary look on the boy’s face. This boy knows that he, too, is shinobi yet…

He feels a bit better. 

Quickly, Madara’s face shifts into a smirk, and he holds out a hand closed around a rock. 

“It’s against shinobi code to tell you my last name, though.”

He hadn’t expected the admission.

“So you are shinobi.” 

They observe one another in a new light—a truthful light before turning away in unison. 

There was something with their departure. A promise of another. Silent yet loud, it echoes against the surrounding trees and is caressed by the blowing breeze. Be it on the battlefield or here at this serene river, their paths would cross.

Inevitable. 

He can’t exactly say why, but it’s the feeling he gets as he soars through the trees once more.

Madara… huh?  

*   *   *

His little brother was killed in battle.

Itama hadn’t even reached double digits yet. He was only nine.

Hashirama didn’t know what to think of that.

It was the Uchiha who did it. Who slaughtered the boy with no mercy.

It made him sick.

Why did Itama have to die? Why could there be no peace? Why is there war?

He knows this present is not a happy one. It will go down in history as a time of chaos. Calamity. Everyone fighting one another, the cycle of hate repeating inevitably. 

Why kill a Hagoromo?

Because they killed my mother.

Why kill the Uchiha?

Because they took my family.

It’s never ending.

It’s utterly exhausting.

All he feels is despair.

He just wants it to end.  

Tobirama is his only brother left and he, too, has been caught in the never-ending cycle of hate. Loathing for the Uchiha. 

Hashirama would be lying if he said he also didn’t feel any animosity for the clan, but it was war. It’s a time where children are handed a weapon and cast out into the fray. 

Itama should not have been anywhere near the battlefield. He was too young, too small, but because of his duty to the Senju, he was. Because he was part of the main family, he was forced to pick up arms and froced to the front. Kawarama too.

All for what? Pride?  

Anger resonates within him and sorrow. 

If he could dream, he would make a world where children aren’t sent to war. Where they don’t have to fight and where they can live in peace and be young. Free.  

He, too, is a child, but one that is already grown. He would inherit his clan one day should his father fall and he would be expected to carry on with Senju traditions. Be expected to keep with the slaughter and keep with the bloodshed.

It’s what his father wants.

He longs for something else.

“Long time no see.”

The voice startles him. Too caught up within his own mind to sense the presence lurking behind him and he turns quickly to find Madara at his back. 

The boy’s hair is longer. It’s been a few months since their first encounter and they’ve both changed. Grown taller and broader. 

“Um…” Madara continues and he realizes the boy doesn’t remember his name.

“Hashirama.”

“Right. I knew that.”

He raises a skeptical brow but he’s not feeling up for banter at the moment.

Madara seems to realize this too as his gaze turns calculating, hands resting on his hips.

“What’s wrong? You’re sad from the get-go.”

He turns back to the river, staring at the ripples that slide across following the wind. Leaves brush by and he sighs.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

He feels tears well in his eyes. “Nuh-uh.”

“Just tell me!”

He turns. “I swear!”

Madara’s face contorts instantly, eyes flaring in irritation. “Spit it out already!”

He folds. 

“My… little brother died.”

The boy sobers, irritation falling away as something akin to understanding fills his eyes.

Hashirama turns back, wiping his face.

“I… come to the river because here, I can forget everything. No one’s fighting. No one’s dying. Everything just… disappears.”

He glances back at the boy’s unreadable face.

“You too, right?”

Madara doesn’t say anything but he nods once.

“Do you have siblings?”

Stones crunch together as the boy approaches before he leans down to pick one up.

“I’m one of five.” Madara tosses the rock into the air and catches it, repeating a few times as he looks out across the water contemplatively. “Well… I used to be.”

Hashirama’s heart drops as sympathy fills him. He doesn’t know who killed Madara’s siblings but he understands that it could have so easily been his own clan.

“We’re Shinobi,” Madara continues. “We never know when we might die. If there were a way where neither side had to die, it’d be where both sides dropped their weapons and instead, poured each other drinks as comrades rather than enemies.”

Shock fills him at the other boy’s words. Words he’s thought and spoken to his own brothers but weren’t heard nor acknowledged were coming from Madara’s mouth as if he, too, determined them on his own.

The dark-haired boy rears back, stone clenched between fingers.

“But that’s impossible.” His body twists, rock slinging through the air with a whistle. “Because we can’t see what each other is feeling deep down on the inside. We don’t know if one side is truly seething…”

The stone skips, once, twice.  

“It’s really not possible, then,” Hashirama murmurs, staring out in front of him, “to truly come to an agreement?”

“I dunno,” Madara replies. “But I’m always making a little wish when I’m here… hoping to find a way.”

Amazingly, the stone makes it across. It tumbles against other pebbles, ones it’s never seen or touched before, slowly, it stops. In a foreign land with foreign stones. Alone but at peace because it made it.  

“Look at that. It seems there finally will be a way this time. It’s not just your stone that made it across… Mine did too.”

Hashirama stares silently at the cluster of rocks where Madara’s landed for quite a while before he stands, brushing the dirt from his clothes.

Madara, despite himself, was someone just like him. Someone foolish enough to think there could be peace when bloodshed is all anyone knows. 

His eyes can’t help but stray to the boy standing with a hand on his hip as he, too, stares out at the water. He’s momentarily taken aback by the boy’s beauty. So ethereal in the sunlight, skin glowing and hair unruly. 

Maybe. Just maybe, this dream isn’t so stupid after all.  

This boy was his gift from the gods, it would seem.

His lips twitch with the thought, the feelings of sadness from before slowly dissipating.

“Though, I don’t need to see what inside you to know…”

“Know what?”

“That your hair and outfits are totally lame!”

A doom cloud befalls him as he hunches over. Still, he’s not really sad anymore and finds himself perking up moments later. 

Maybe something good would come from these interactions, after all.

*   *   *

They met frequently after that.

Though their origins remained hidden, their friendship grew. 

Hashirama came to understand Madara as an equal. The only boy who could keep up with him during spars and the only one who could push him to be better. Do better. Many nights, they found themselves exhausted from taijutsu training and even more from ninjutsu. 

They’ve come to know one another quite intimately. He knows that Madara despises when someone’s at his back be it him or another while Madara knows that Hashirama was quite expressful—he couldn’t lie for anything. Something sparks between them, so childish and innocent that they never even perceive to think about the meaning of those new emotions and fondness, so they never do.

Their ideas intertwin and grow, becoming so interwoven, it is hard to tell who thought of what and who threaded the thought into a plan.

“But the thing is… how do we definitively change things? We have to have a vision of the future,” Hashirama murmurs as he sits atop a crumbling boulder—a result of their most recent spars. They were both sweaty and bruised, but happy.

“Well, the first step would be not to give up on our ideals. We have to get stronger.”

Hashirama understands instantly, perking up. “If we get stronger, if we master all sorts of jutsus, then people won’t be able to ignore us. They’ll have to listen.”

Madara nods, smug as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Exactly.”

There were times, however, when they’d become quiet. When they would stare out at their river together, lost in their thoughts. It was during these moments that Hashirama’s gaze would be drawn to Madara. To the pale skin and dark hair. 

Inklings would scurry at the back of his mind. Knowledge he refuses to accept, to even consider before he pushes it away.

He’d always end up wondering if Madara ever felt the same way about him.

Eventually, they discovered something. A mountain and the vast forest below it.

“We should build our settlement here,” he states after Madara’s disclosure about his only remaining brother. “Make a place where children don’t have to kill one another. We’ll make a school to teach them things other than war. We’ll make a safe haven where people can be secure and not have to worry about constantly going to war and dying.”

“That’s all nonsense.”

“What about you?”

Madara seems to truly think about it, eyes flicking to him and away toward their view. 

“…my brother. If a place like that truly did exist, I’d watch over and protect my little brother.”

Hashirama smiles, wide and proud because that, too, was his dream.

Madara’s face follows in a soft expression of his own.

There, together, they dream of a future. Of peace and of each other.

But… their vision didn’t last long.

*   *   *

“Anija,” Tobirama’s voice is the first thing he hears when he sneaks in through the back of the Senju camp. In his grasp is the stone Madara managed to successfully throw across the river  again.

He stops, tensing at his brother’s serious expression. Not unusual but there’s more tension than normal.

“Father wishes to speak with you.”

And like that, his stomach sinks.

Tobirama leads him and he can’t help but try and scrounge for an excuse. For something to get him out of this situation, but it’s fruitless. He’s nothing but a child at the moment. Nothing he can do will change anything until he’s older. He just has to hold on until then.

“This boy you’ve been meeting up with,” Senju Butsuma’s voice floats over the deadly silent room. Tobirama sits next to him in perfect seiza while Hashirama remains in front like a scolded child. “He is an Uchiha.”

His fists clench.

It was… not new knowledge. He’d always… thought so. The Uchiha markings are quite distinctive. Their skin so much like the snow while their hair like the darkest of nights. And their eyes…

He knew, on some level, but to acknowledge it would have been treason against his clan—his family, so he didn’t. He pushed it away and never thought of it again.

“You knew,” Butsuma states, voice like ice.

“N—No, father,” he mutters, eyes on his lap. “We never—we never spoke of family names.”

A few more moments of silence pass before Butsuma speaks again.

“You understand what this means, do you not? You will be labeled a spy, but… if you wish not to be, you must follow him the next time you meet.”

His heart sinks. His throat closes and his stomach turns. 

He knew his father would ask this of him if he ever found out about their meetings. He knew the quiet peace he’d come to love, come to long for would be over. There would be no going back.

“You must bring home intel on the Uchiha. That is your mission. Should he notice you… kill him.”

He does his best to keep his breathing even as his hands clench against his knees. The panic rises and rises and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to bite it back.

“You… are certain he’s… an Uchiha?” he tries.

“Yes,” his father replies confidently.

Fuck.

“If he finds out you’re a Senju, he’ll do his best to kill you. He’ll pretend to let his guard down to trick you. You must not fall for it.”

The defense is spewing from his lips before he can help it.

“He’s not like that—”

“He is an Uchiha. He’ll always be like that,” his father seethes before he calms himself. “Do you really wish to put every Senju’s life in danger?”

He clenches his jaw.

“Should he manage to trick you, Tobirama and I shall accompany you. Understand?”

And he does. More than his father or brother will ever know.

*   *   *

The next day, he meets Madara. 

Melancholy soars within him, worse than he’s ever felt before, but doesn’t let it show. He stays cynical and blank.

Madara… does the same.

“I know we just got here, but can we skip stones again?” Madara calls out.

“Yeah,” he replies.

His arm reaches into his jinbei at the same time Madara reaches into his yukata.

The stones skip, successfully reaching opposite sides and their awaiting hands. His eyes widen at a message written on his stone, almost identical to the one he wrote on his own.

Run.  

“Hashirama, sorry… I just remembered I have something to do,” Madara yells across, voice echoing.

“Haha,” he laughs nervously. “Me too. Later.”

The turn and sprint in unison, fleeing. He hopes his father won’t make a brash decision, but he’s quickly proved wrong as Butsuma and Tobirama fly past him.

He stumbles to a stop just in time to hear swords clash.

It seems Madara’s father had the same thought as he and the youngest Uchiha meet with the Senju in the river. 

Words are exchanged and Hashirama can only look on in despair. He knows that this will be the end of their meetings. The end of their dreams and the end of their friendship.

He feels his throat close up when the oldest Uchiha throws a tanto toward Tobirama and Hashirama does the only thing he can do—he throws the stone to deviate the weapon off path before it can hit his brother.

Madara does the same toward the kunai their father sent toward the youngest Uchiha before they both land in front of their family.

“I won’t forgive anyone who tries to hurt my brother no matter who they are,” Madara seethes.

Madara’s gaze eventually falls from its glare after a few moments as he looks down at the water between them.

“Maybe this… pipe dream we had… just isn’t… possible.”

Hashirama frowns, brow furrowing. “Madara, what’re you…”

But he knows what Madara means. He understands what the boy is saying, he just doesn’t like it. To give up after all their planning? Their dream? Just like that?

He won’t.

“It may have been brief, but it was fun, Hashirama.”

“Madara…”

“He’s stronger than me, Father. We can’t fight them.”

The Uchihas’ eyes widen and Hashirama scowls. They never determined if that was true or not—they were always equal in their spars.

Uchiha Tajima states, “Let’s go,” and the Uchiha retreat.

But Hashirama can’t let it end there. 

“Madara, do you really—you’ve really given up? On our dream?”

Madara pauses at the river’s edge, refusing to turn around.

“You… are Senju as much as I wish you weren’t and I… am an Uchiha.”  

The boy turns then, his dark eyes that Hashirama’s come to long for are nowhere to be seen. Instead, in their place are red, blood-like irises that he immediately understands are the Sharingan.  

The littlest Uchiha gasps in excitement while Tajima mutters something that Hashirama can’t hear over the blood rushing through his ears at sight of Madara’s eyes on him. 

Deadly, they are, but beautiful.

So much so that he wishes he could have seen them before. Was able to observe them.

“The next time we meet, it will be on the battlefield.”

He understood then, what Madara unlocking his Sharingan meant. The resolve to completely cut Hashirama out of his life and cut the bond they grew and watered over those months.

But… Hashirama made no such resolutions. 

As he watches the Uchiha retreat, refusing to turn their backs on them, he makes his own aspiration. He knows Madara hasn’t given up—he can’t. Not so easily, so he shan’t either.

And he didn’t. Never even thought of the possibility until their first clash of swords.

Until Madara tried, really tried, to take his life on the battlefield. 

Then he doubted. 

He understood finally that they were enemies. If he were to slip, to doubt for even a second, Madara would take his life without hesitation, but… he could not find the same resolve.

Madara gave as good as he got. He pushed and he pulled, leaving Hashirama no room for error, but he knew that if Madara ever did slip, he wouldn’t be able to do it, for even if they were enemies, they had a dream. One he would make reality no matter how long it took.

He just had to figure out… how.  

It—it shouldn’t be too hard, should it?

Hahaha…

*   *   *

It’s years later before they meet again. Truly meet. 

They’d seen each other on the field, of course. Their swords had met many times, and with each, they failed to kill one another. 

Madara had learned his clan’s Katon.

Hashirama learned his own Mokuton.

He had been proud to show the other his new jutsu and he was certain Madara was proud to show off his own too. 

That was the dance they danced for years. Four, to be exact. 

Until fate takes them to that river again. Water untainted by blood and violence. 

How that happened, he’s not sure, but it’s sacred to him now. Some place that he frequents despite knowing Madara would never return.

Until he did.  

It was sometime during the night. Stars were shining, illuminating the familiar path that he’d learned years ago as he followed it loyally. It had become a routine—this trek.

Every time he returned from battle relatively unscathed and alive, he would come out here no matter the time or season. He would always return to this river, skip a few stones as he pondered things inconsequential before he returned home.

This night was different, however. 

He was too tired and worn to sense it, but the other did. He knew immediately when Hashirama entered the bank and bent over to pick up a stone, yet for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to move. To flee.

Instead, he observed.

The water was dark, black like an Uchiha’s hair and Hashirama found himself in melancholy once more. His own hair had grown longer—much longer than it had been four years ago. He hadn’t cut it since.

He tosses the stone, it skips once, twice. Four times. It plops directly in the middle.

He sighs.

Deaths were numerous that day, but not against the Uchiha, surprisingly. The Hagoromo were trying their hand against the Senju promptly after an Uchiha battle, seemingly attempting to get the Senju when they were low and weak.

Obviously, the Senju wouldn’t be defeated as such and Hashirama was tired from his time on the frontlines. 

He tosses another stone.

Plop, plop, plop.  

It was exactly four years ago that he met Madara, if it were past midnight, and he found himself more sorrowful than ever.

His mind wanders as it does frequently when he’s alone long enough to hear it. It speaks to him, shows him memories of what once were and visions of what could have been.

He longs.

Another stone is tossed and he used enough strength this time that it makes it across. His eyes follow it as they always do, and only then does he realize the person standing across the shore. 

Taller. So much taller than he remembers with longer hair too. Still so wild and unruly. Untamed, just like him.

They make eye contact.

They hold. One, two—

They flit off, one after another, faster than the eye could see.

His heart rusehs through his ears. He can feel it trying to beat out of his chest, but he ignores it because Madara was there.  

Yes, he was fleeing, but that is to be expected. They were enemies. Rivals and adversaries. 

If Hashirama let Madara get away, he’d be called a traitor.

If Madara stayed and fought, he could be killed with no one around to report his death.

Their actions make sense.

He catches Madara—something inconceivable considering how much faster the Uchiha is than him—and they both fall. Bodies roll, grunts, and gasps as the only thing to accompany them. 

A fist in his gut here, a knee to the other’s back there. They fight, but… not really. Not like they do on the field. Instead, this is something more akin to their spars they had during of days past.

Eventually, he gets the other boy under him, pinned by his body. Legs over legs, arms against arms. 

They pant into the silence of the forest.

Cicadas buzz their excitement and the moon peaks through the trees enough to let Hashirama see that gaze he’s always longed to see outside of battle. The red and black, so startling and deadly. 

Madara could take him down instantly by eye contact alone, yet he doesn’t, and neither does Hashirama shy away.

Instead, they stay like that—suspended in a stasis of nothingness.

No one moves.

No one breathes.

They stare.

Eventually, red recedes to black and Hashirama can’t resist the urge to lift a hand.

Madara is free but he makes no moves to shove him away as he cups the boy’s face. 

The skin is smoother than he expects, unblemished and soft. Aged, too, with the years that have passed them. Sixteen year old Madara was so much more… ethereal than his twelve year old counterpart. 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting Madara to do. Shove him away, sure. Try to kill, yes, but closing his eyes and leaning into the touch?

Gods, no.

Yet the boy does just that.

Hashirama’s breath is stuck in his throat and his grip on the other slacks as he runs a thumb just under Madara’s eye, caressing. 

This is a dream, he thinks. It has to be. There’s no way Madara— Uchiha Madara— is allowing himself to be put in such a position. Is allowing Hashirama to touch him as such. They are enemies.  

But it is night. Darkness is prevalent everywhere and no one is around to see.

Madara is a sensor, that much Hashirama has come to know from the whispered rumors of war. He would be able to tell if anyone were close, so no one must be.

They stay like that for eternity before Madara’s eyes open again. They’re guarded now. Hard and unreadable.

Hashirama barely has time to push away before a kunai is swiped against the place where he once kneeled, directly where his throat would have been.

Madara stands and glares.

Hashirama stares and ponders.

“Madara…” he states, voice much deeper than Madara’s heard before. They don’t speak in battle, instead, using their eyes and body to converse.

The boy tenses, he looks seconds from fleeing and Hashirama’s mind races on how to get the boy to stay.  

“I—”

A twig snaps as Madara’s foot retreats.

Hashirama stops speaking.

Madara stops trying to run.

They’re alone out there, the two of them and he thinks he sees the realization dawn in Madara’s eyes finally. Not that he doesn’t think the boy didn’t already know—he believes the boy finally realized what it means.  

Here, they weren’t the enemies their families were. Weren’t adversaries sent out to kill one another.

Here, they were Hashirama and Madara. Two boys who dreamed big and crashed harder.

Tentatively, he takes a step forward.

Madara tenses but doesn’t retreat.

So, he takes another and another. Twenty until he’s standing an arm’s length from the boy whose dark hair shines blue in the moonlight.

He wonders what Madara is thinking at this moment. What he feels and what he yearns to do. Is it the same as his longings? The same as his thought and emotions?

He wants to reach out, but he doesn’t know what will be too far for Madara.

He wants to speak, but he doesn’t know if it’ll make the other flee.

So, he waits.

Madara’s glare deepens. He makes the face he makes when he’s seething mad and Hashirama’s not too sure what set the other off.

But the Uchiha doesn’t run.

Instead, miraculously, he takes a step forward.

Hashirama’s eyes widen in shock and he tenses his body so he doesn’t move. He waits, ever so patient, as Madara takes another step and another until they’re almost touching, chest to chest. He can feel the other’s breath brush against his cheek softly with each exhale.

Madara has to look up at him now, he notes with a hint of triumph.

He must smirk because Madara scowls but… he still doesn’t retreat.

He doesn’t retreat.  

“You’ve grown,” is what Madara states. His voice is deeper too, and smooth. Soothing.

“You’ve known that,” he replies.

Did they really, though? It’s not like they’re ever in stasis in battle. Always crouched low or jumping high. Always defending or attacking. No time for pausing or observation.

Black eyes flick down toward his mouth and back up.

“Your voice is deeper.”

“Your eyes are prettier.”

Startled, Madara blinks.

Hashirama feels his face heat. The words left before he could stop them like always.

The boy glares at him and he wishes anxiously that he could rub the back of his neck without alarming the other.

He doesn’t want to take back his statement, he meant it, but it’s a bit awkward now so he decides to own it.

“They’ve changed too.”

Madara’s brow twitches, so Hashirama clarifies.

“Your eyes.”

Briefly, they flicker red and he stares, captivated. Will Madara show him? Truly show him without battle between him?

Disappointment consumes him the next moment when Madara doesn’t. Instead, he speaks.

“My… eyes?”

“Yes.”

“You know what they do.” 

Not a question, still, Hashirama answers as if it were.

“Yes.”

“…But you think they’re pretty?”

“…Yes.”

Black eyes stare, shocked, clearly. “You… have always been an idiot.”

“Yes.”

“Is that the only word you know?”

“No.”

“You think my Sharingan are pretty?”

“Yes.”

Madara blinks. He seems so utterly dumbfounded that Hashirama can’t help the smile that splits his face.

Hesitantly, he reaches up again. 

Madara tenses and glares but doesn’t retreat out of his reach so he takes that for consent and cups the other’s face just as he did earlier. There’s no softness this time with Madara’s body, but tension. Still, Hashirama perseveres. 

He runs his thumb under an eye, feeling the lashes against his skin just as he did earlier, but with different intentions. It wasn’t a caress of disbelief and longing, but appreciation and lusting to see what could be.

He’s vaguely aware of Madara’s kunai against his side, warning and cautioning. Should he do anything to mess with the boy’s eyes, he’d cut Hashirama down where he stands.

Still, he’s not fearful for there is nothing to fear. He won’t harm Madara nor will the other harm him. It was quite prevalent from their interaction. Their silent truce.

“Show me.”

Madara stares at him for a good, long while before he ever so subtly nuzzles the hand caressing him.

They never break eye contact as those black irises disappear into red. Three tomoe stare back at him and he observes in fascination. 

These eyes that have been used to kill so many of his clan.

These eyes that have many horror stories told.

These eyes that can paralyze with a single glance.

These eyes that instill terror in so many.

They’re—

“—Beautiful.”

Madara shudders, lids falling momentarily as he savors the touch–the feeling before they flick open. 

“We will be killed for this,” is the soft reply.

He knows.

“No one will find out.”

“They did before.”

“We’re older. More experienced.”

“But we are not the best.” Madara’s jaw clenches. “I will not be labeled a traitor.”

Hashirama allows his hand to finally fall away and Madara’s eyes bleed back to black.

“Neither will I.”

Cicadas buzz.

“I should kill you,” Madara murmurs.

“Yet you don’t,” Hashirama replies.

“Why have you come?”

“I always come. You never do.”

Black eyes drop to glare at the ground between them. 

Hashirama’s curiosity becomes too much.

“Why?”

Arms cross in front of blood red armor—both of them have just come from battle, it would seem—as Madara contemplates. 

Silence consumes them and it’s after a few moments that Hashirama realizes he’s not going to get a response so he fills it himself.

“Tomorrow, it will be four years since we met.”

Madara doesn’t seem surprised. When his eyes look up, there is no shock there nor is there astonishment. 

“I know.”

And suddenly, Hashirama understands. He might not ever be the brightest kunai in the holster, but this, he gets.

A smile lights his face.

Madara scowls.

“You—”

“I have to go,” the black-haired boy cuts off. He takes a step back and Hashirama curbs the urge to reach for him. He knows it will be futile.

Madara doesn’t wait for a reply as he turns.

“I’ll come back,” Hashirama finds himself calling as the boy disappears into the night. “Every Saturday, if allowed.”

There are no words of acknowledgment. No agreements and no consent.

Yet Hashirama feels as if the boy will return. 

He retreats as well, staring down at his hand still warm with the lingering buzz of the Uchiha’s soft skin.

He wonders why his heart beats as so for a boy he’s only ever destined to be enemies with.

He wonders.

*   *   *

The next Saturday comes, but Madara does not. 

Still, Hashirama remains loyal. To his clan, to his resolve.

To this.  

He comes back every Saturday, battle or no battle.

He’s not disheartened. He knows. He saw it in that red gaze as it looked up at him in that dark, silent forest.

Madara will return.

So, he waits.

*   *   *

Months go by and his sixteenth summer turns into his seventeenth autumn. His father gives him the night off in celebration and he plays the role of birthday boy until he can slip away unnoticed.

It’s wishful thinking that today would be the day for Madara’s return, but he knows otherwise. He knows, but never will he lose hope.

The stars are out once more, shining down and the moon is full.

The weather is changing, getting colder and soon, he won’t be able to make these for trips as long. He’ll always come, but he can’t stay. 

He wishes Madara’s return will happen before then because what if the boy approaches, expecting to find him and he doesn’t? He doesn’t want the boy to think he’s abandoned their plans or ideals.

He’s skipping stones when he senses it, the familiar chakra. He’s by no means a sensor, but Madara’s not repressing himself.

His first emotion is disbelief. He thought he’d have to wait at least half a year, but no!

Excitement is next and his head snaps up just in time for Madara to fall from the trees. Just as beautiful as he was all those months ago, he stares at Hashirama with an unreadable look.

He’s across the river before he can think better of it.

“You came!” 

Madara doesn’t retreat as he approaches, smiling wide.

“You’re so… gullible. What if I had an ambush waiting for you?” the dark-haired boy snaps, crossing his arms across his chest.

Confused, Hashirama tilts his head. “But you didn’t.”

“And how would you know that?!”

The words come easier than they should.

“Because I trust you.”

Dumbfounded is the only way to describe Madara’s face and it would be funny had he not been feeling so sincere. 

He meant it when he said he trusted Madara. For whatever reason, this was the boy he dreamt with. The boy he wanted to make a village with. He’s not ready to give up those ambitions. Not until Madara kills him. That will be the only way.

“You… are such an idiot,” Madara mutters, running a hand down his face.

“But you’re here,” he whispers and the Uchiha lets his hand fall away.

“I am.”

“Why?”

Madara’s gaze is unreadable again.

“I don’t know.”

“I—”

“This is treason,” Madara cuts him off. “Why are you so ready to cut and run?”

“I’m not.”

“Looks like it to me.”

“I just…” he trails off, unsure how to respond. He’s had months to think. Years to ponder, waiting for a day, an opportunity to get Madara back on their dreams.

So why, now, when that’s finally here, does he blank?

“You… were my first friend,” he states after a while. He doesn’t look at Madara, instead, staring into their river’s black water. He stares at the moon, distorted and bent. “Yeah, I had my brothers, but there was no one until you. I… dreamed with you. Grew with you.”

“You’re throwing your clan away for a pipe dream that will never come true,” Madara growls and this time, Hashirama pushes back.

“I’m not giving anything up. I’m heading forward with what we both wanted.”

“Yeah? And how’s that coming? There are dead bodies on top of dead bodies. Senju and Uchiha.”

Hashirama knows. He knows and he knows why.

He thinks Madara knows why too.

“I… will be clan head one day,” he states, staring directly at Madara’s eyes. 

The black, hard gaze wavers momentarily with his words and he pushes forth.

“You will too.”

Madara blinks.

Hashirama holds out a hand, low and in between them.

“When we lead, we will make peace.”

Madara stares. Long and hard but Hashirama never wavers.

“It’ll never last,” the boy states eventually.

“You’ll never know unless you try.”  

“Senju killed my brothers.”

“Uchiha killed mine.”  

Madara crumbles, shoulders hunch and his mask cracks.

“They won’t accept.”

“What, the bloodshed finally ending?”

And Madara doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“Or the children dying? Or their families? Do you think they want war?”

Madara’s jaw clenches and Hashirama uses his other hand to reach up and brush against the dark-haired boy’s cheek.

“We’re older now, Madara. You dreamt of a place where you could protect your brother. Why fight that?”

Just one more push.

“Come on. Make a village with me?”

The Uchiha falls. 

A warm hand falls into his own and he immediately pulls the boy against his chest. 

It was weird—hugging Madara. They’ve never done that before. They’ve sparred, pinned each other, fought each other and chased, but never… hugged.

It felt good.

He’s not too certain how long they stay like that, but it’s long enough that their skin becomes cold and the birds start to chirp.

They need to leave, he knows, but he doesn’t want to. Not yet.

“Will you meet with me now?”

Dark hair tickles his chin as Madara slowly nods his head.

“Not here.”

“Okay.”

Madara pulls back and steps away.

“There is… a waterfall. Upstream. Small, but behind it is a cave. We can…”

Hashirama smiles, wide and bright.

“It should be big enough for us if we want to spar or—”

“Thank you,” Hashirama cuts him off, feeling giddy all over.

Madara says nothing as he turns away.

Hashirama watches him go silently.

The Uchiha pauses in the forest line.

“I… won’t be able to frequent often… Every three weeks, perhaps. When my father is distracted.”

Hashirama beams.  

“Yes! Okay, I can do that.”

Dark eyes flick back, unreadable but determined and the boy nods once. He turns, pausing again before he speaks. 

“Oh… happy birthday.”

Madara fuses into the night, disappearing before he can say a word.

He stands, shocked for quite a while as he processes the words. 

They never spoke of birthdays. Of intimate knowledge like that, but… he supposes that the Senju heir’s birthday could be found with relative ease, much as the Uchiha’s.

Stunned, he is, by Madara’s words. By his actions and meanings. 

Hashirama wasn’t quick-witted but he understood what this was.

His heart thunders.

An emotion rises, one he’s never felt before and he’s not sure what to do with it.

He turns away, disappearing into the darkness as well.

He shall eagerly await three weeks.

*   *   *

He’s not sure what changed in Madara. What made the boy who vowed to forget him, offer a truce, but nevertheless, he’s not taking it for granted. 

As their promised time approaches, he finds the cave Madara once spoke of. Thoughts of ambush or set-ups cross briefly, mostly because Madara would scold him for being so carefree with his trust and he disregards them just as fast.

The cave is vast. Wide and long. Perfect for sparring and training, and a perfect shield from the outside weather.

He’s fought Madara twice since their agreement. He never expected anything to change and they didn’t. Madara still gave it his all when on the battlefield and Hashirama returned it thricefold. 

No one could know. 

It would be worse than the first time. Then, they could profess ignorance even if they secretly did know. Now, they would be marked traitors. Killed for their treason.

Tobirama would be so angry at him. Betrayed by his actions, but Tobirama doesn’t understand—too far caught up in their father’s ideals. In his own hate.

All Hashirama wants is peace. 

All Hashirama wants is a place where children don’t go to war.

All he wants is a ceasefire.  

Why is that so controversial?

He takes off his armor and lays it on the floor before taking a spot beside it. Minutes tick by and the cool air nips. Fingers drum against his knee and his mind wanders. 

He should start a fire. Who knows how long it will be before Madara appears, and it was getting cold.

He flits into the night.

Madara is there when he returns, arms crossed and glaring.

“I had to get fire wood,” he defends, plopping the wood in front of him.

“I thought you were a Mokuton user,” is Madara’s reply.

Hashirama pauses.

“Oh.”

Madara glares before he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Idiot,” he breathes as Hashirama rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“In my defense, I’ve only used it in battle thus far. I’m still getting the hang of it.”

“I’ve already mastered my fire ball.”

Hashirama makes a face at Madara’s smug expression, eyes narrowing.

“If it’s so mastered, light the fire. Without burning all the wood.

Madara’s eyes narrow and they hold each other’s gazes for what feels like forever before Madara looks away, weaving the signs.

Hashirama watches with blatant interest as fire erupts—not as much as he’s used to, but still more than necessary.

Thankfully, not all of the wood is charred and they get a fire.

Madara looks a bit chaste and in spirit of keeping the peace—for now—Hashirama doesn’t comment.

The area warms relatively quickly and soon, Madara is shedding his own armor next to Hashirama’s.

“What?” the dark-haired boy snaps when he notices Hashirama’s curious gaze.

“You took it off,” is his reply.

Dark brows furrow.

“And?”

Hashirama stares.

His armor—he didn’t mind shedding it. It was only Madara whom he trusted. He understood the sentiment wouldn’t be returned. Madara was a prickly person as is—his trust was not so easily given. That much he’s come to learn over the years of rumors and gossip.

He knew Madara of old trusted him, but this Madara? It’s been years. He understood he would have to regain the trust—

Except it seems he didn’t.

He shakes his head, clearing his cloudy thoughts even as a smile threatens to break out across his face.

“Do you want to spar?”

The Uchiha give him a look.  

“We just returned from battle. What more could you possibly want?”

“Well, you just returned. It’s been peaceful here for over a week. I’m getting stir-crazy,” he states with a shrug. “Besides… it’s been a while since we fought to show each other our strength rather than to kill.”

And Madara doesn’t seem to know what to do with those words. 

Eventually, the Uchiha sighs. He rolls his neck before he nods once.

The smile Hashirama lets spread across his face is dazzling as his excitement builds. He has so many things he wants to show the other. So many questions he thought over the years with no one to bounce them off of.

Tobirama, yes, but… it wasn’t the same as speaking technicalities with Madara.

Maybe… maybe they could pick up where they left off with their combined techniques too.

They could be unstoppable.

“Before we start,” Madara states, eyes hard and unreadable. “No clan secrets. Nothing that could hurt our families and nothing that could give anyone any inclination that we’ve been meeting.”

That… sounds reasonable. Even if it makes Hashirama want to scowl.

“So things you already know?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want that.”

Madara looks dumbfounded.

Hashirama carries on, “I have so much stuff I’ve been working on and no one to ponder with. What’s the point of our spars if we can’t do that?”

“We are enemies—”  

“Not here. We’re not enemies here.”

And the Uchiha doesn’t seem to like that response, but he doesn’t refute it.

“How about this,” he starts, “Everything I practice here, I won’t take to the field.”

“Then you’ll be holding back and that’s not acceptable.”

Okay, Madara has a point.

“But it won’t be because these jutsus are just practice. I’ve not mastered any of them and… if I do, well… hopefully I’ll be head by then.”

“You can’t bet on that for everything.”

Frustration finally wells within him.

“Madara—”

“No, you wanted this, so you must abide by my rules.”

“You want this just as much or you wouldn’t be here.”

Madara’s jaw clenches.

Hashirama sighs.

“Look. I’m not saying to spill any deadly secrets. I want to work on my Mokuton and my healing capabilities. That’s it. You’re the only person who is able to keep up with me—the only person that would be able to help me develop them.”

Madara wavers.

“Please?”

Madara falls.

He glares, seething as he takes a step forward. 

“Fine, but I most certainly will not be exposing myself to the likes of a Senju.”

That… was honestly so much better than he was expecting.

“Okay. That’s perfectly reasonable,” he concedes.

The dark-haired boy fumes but nods once.

For some reason, it took Hashirama a moment to process what Madara’s acceptance fully meant and when he did, exhilaration shot through his veins.

It had been… so long since he was able to spar with someone on his level. He knew that going in, it would actually be a surprise on who would come out.

Giddiness becomes him as Madara approaches.

“Taijutsu only,” the dark-haired man states a moment before he charges.

It’s been years but still, Hashirama can see the fist coming. In battle, taijutsu is usually the last thing they’ll use in favor of the other jutsus, so it wasn’t often that it happened. He’d almost forgotten how water-like Madara’s body moved when he fought.

He’d gotten better too, if the way he immediately pushed Hashirama back was anything to go by.

In three quick concessions, a punch, leg sweep, and punch again, Hashirama was cornered, falling to the ground with an omph.  

“You’re faster,” he comments nonchalantly as Madara sneers down at him.

“You’re just slower.”

Hashirama smiles a soft smile a moment before his hand is snapping out and dragging Madara down with him. Together, they tumble across the rock floor of the cave, struggling to get the upper hand.

He eases up, eventually, and Madara flicks back panting from his exertion.

“How’s that for slow?”

The Uchiha scowls a moment before he’s flitting in front of him again.

He catches the arm this time, not one to be fooled twice and pulls, quickly spinning the boy and pushing him away.

Maybe it’s time for offense, he thinks as Madara stumbles, so he does.

He shoots forth this time and Madara’s eyes widen a moment before his hands come up.

He blocks everything Hashirama gives him with ease, and before they know it, their speed is as fast as a Shushin.  

All over the cave from the mouth to the back, they struggle and fight. They roll and they tumble. Elbows in stomachs and fists across jaws. 

There’s an audible click when Madara at the very least fractures his wrist and a discontorted land when Hashirama feels his femur snap. 

It’s okay though! They’re shinobi.

They keep going.

Luckily, Hashirama’s self-healing ability had progressed to numerous reaches in the last years, so the femur slowly melds back. Madara is the only one left hurt still and Hashirama is tempted to call a time-out but he knows that will only make the other angry, so he quells it.

Finally, miraculously, he’s the one pinned.

Madara sits astride his chest, legs pinning his arms while his unhurt hand is clasped around his throat.

They pant into the silence of the cave, sweat soaking their clothes. Even the harshness of the cold does nothing to cool their heated skin.

The Uchiha’s dark hair is damp, pressed against his forehead and Hashirama can feel his own matted to his neck.

Adrenaline courses through his veins still, ticking up a notch when Madara squeezes. Fingers tighten and he tilts his head slightly to get oxygen into his lungs.

“Yield,” Madara snarls, hand tightening again and something in Hashirama shifts.

Something he’s rarely felt before courses through him, spiking and making his already shortness of breath stutter and halt. He feels… desire alight in him and it’s all he can do to keep himself still.

He stares.

Time and time again, he’s thought of Madara’s beauty. Of his ethereal appearance and his beguiling eyes, but nothing could compare to this moment right now.

Something in his expression must shift, must show—he’s always been told his eyes give everything away—because Madara’s glare fades. His grip slackens and he rests himself more firmly on Hashirama’s stomach as confusion crosses his gaze.

Hashirama doesn’t dare to move, too afraid to scare him off. 

Madara stares, expression unreadable. He leans forward, knees falling free of his arms but his hand never leaves Hashirama’s neck.

“Yield,” he commands, voice quiet and low. 

Black eyes pour into his own as he swallows. His throat moves, pressing against Madara’s hands but his voice never makes its way out. It can’t. If he yielded, the moment would be over and what an utter shame that would be.

Instead, his hand raises on its own.

Much like it did all those months ago, it cups Madara’s cheek.

The boy saw it coming. Knew what he was going to do and still, he didn’t evade. Hashirama’s lips twitch with the knowledge but he keeps his expression as blank as he can.

The Uchiha tenses at the touch, grip squeezing.

“Hashi—”

“You’re ethereal.”

Madara freezes.

Hashirama’s hand slides, fingers threading through unruly black hair. He clenches and brings the boy forth, not too much, only slightly but enough that Madara’s hand moves from his throat to the stone beside his head to catch himself.

He feels the Uchiha’s breath brush against his cheek and all he can do is stare up at the other.

Mesmerized. That’s what he is.

An urge hits him then as his eyes flick down to Madara’s lips. Just once, it crosses his mind, but now that it’s there, it won’t ever leave. Not until he does something.

So he does.

He gives Madara time to evade. Time for him to retreat to the other side of the cave, but he doesn’t. He lets Hashirama guide him down.

Down, down, until—

Their lips brush. Just once. Novically—Hashirama’s never done that before—but it’s enough to send electricity everywhere. It tingles, from his lips to his heart.

He wants to do it again.

So he does.

Madara doesn’t fight him. He presses back just as tentatively and their lips move.

His eyes fall shut before he knows it and he’s leaning up.

Madara goes with him, surprisingly. So, so surprisingly. The Uchiha falls to his lap and he props himself up with his free arm, the other stubbornly attached to the other.

Soft, the Uchiha’s lips are. Just like his skin. 

He presses forth, savoring the feeling because who knows if he’d ever get to do this again—Madara was going to kill him when he came to his senses, that much Hashirama knew.

Hesitantly, fingers brush his face. They skim his jaw, comb through his hair and glide along his scalp.

A sigh leaves him before he can help it, noting the way Madara’s breath hitches.

He presses forth again before the boy can come back to himself, tilting his head for a better angle.

Madara accepts with ease, exhaling through his nose as Hashirama pushes back.

He lets his hand fall from Madara’s hair to his waist. It rests there, unmoving, but it does squeeze. Just once.

Madara gasps. Low and in his throat does a noise escape.

Hashirama’s mind blanks.

His tongue is slipping through the other’s lips before he knows better, just wanting more. More of Madara, more of that sound. He doesn’t care.

The Uchiha allows it, mouth opening wider at the foreign intrusion. 

Their tongues brush and it’s bliss.

Warm and wet, unfamiliar yet amazing. 

His teeth scrape against Madara’s lip as he pulls back, stomach swooping when Madara follows and he’s helpless to deny. 

Fingers tighten in his hair as Madara finally seems to get a grasp on how things work and they tug. 

Hashirama’s head falls back, a low noise coming from his throat this time as Madara presses forth. He takes charge now, pressing himself inside Hashirama’s mouth and making Hashirama’s heart rate spike to dangerous levels as they kiss.

Desire swells, multiplies and smothers. He’s getting lost in it, he can tell by the way his head is warm and fuzzy. All he can do is breathe and drink Madara who seems to reciprocate such passions.

Another hand touches his face, different than the one in his hair, and Madara suddenly pulls back, hissing. 

He opens his eyes to find the Uchiha sitting on his lap, cradling his wrist to his chest as he grimaces.

They catch their breath in silence as he tries to find a way to approach the other. Madara would certainly run away if he spoke right now. He might do it anyway, he notes, as realization begins to dawn in that black gaze.

He can’t let that happen. Not before the wrist is fixed, so he refutes words all together and uses actions instead.

Madara tenses as he grabs the boy’s forearm, but relents as Hashirama pulls it toward him.

Warm, green chakra glows between them as his fingers skim across the fractured wrist and it’s only a few moments before the it’s healed. 

His hands fall and his mouth opens.

“Mada—”

The Uchiha is a ghost in the wind, his speed quick enough that it extinguishes the fire along the way, leaving Hashirama in total darkness.

At least he grabbed his armor, he notes before he lets himself fall back to the harsh stone under him.

He stares at the ceiling of the cave, the stalactites staring down at him, mocking and warning. Any less sturdy and they would be raining death upon him.

He lies there for an unmeasurable amount of time, fingers scaling against his lips.

Unbelievable.

He kissed Madara.

He kissed Madara.

…Why did he?

His mind is a muddled mess. 

The urge was there, strong and powerful, so he acted on it, of course. He’s always had the worst restraint known to man—Tobirama tells him he acts rashly. He likes to think he’s a free spirit—but even then, he’s never done something so… stupid.

Charging into battle without a glance back?

Not even that compares to how immeasurably idiotic his behavior was.

Madara wouldn’t return anymore. Their ‘friendship’ however meager and futile was over. He knew that.

It aches. Behind his sternum. Had he not been any less practiced in medical jutsu, he’d think he was having a very early heart attack.

But no.

He just ruined what could have been the best thing that ever would have happened to him and he doesn’t know what to do.

Eventually, he forces himself up from the ground. He aches all over, his muscles, his bones, but that is to be expected when sparring with the Uchiha Madara.

His mind races as he readorns his armor and exits the cave.

Surely, it can’t be over. Not like that. 

Certainly, Madara will be back even if it was to deal Hashirama a killing blow. 

He’ll just have to apologize then.

So he, too, disappears into the night with the taste of an Uchiha on his tongue and the repercussions for such a thing in the back of his mind.

Something to ponder another time.

*   *   *

Guilt is his first emotion.

His actions thus forth could have been defended. He wanted peace. A ceasefire and partnering with Uchiha Madara could have been brushed off as such.

But kissing? Tasting something so forbidden, feeling the desire for more? From an Uchiha?  

That. That, he cannot defend.

Despite his dreams, the Uchiha have killed many of his clan, his brothers.  

It’s betrayal.

It’s treason.

It’s—

Madara flashes through his mind. All dark and pale, with the most blazing fire behind his eyes. He can feel the ghost of the boy on his hands, his face, his lips, and he can’t find it in himself to deny it any longer.

Years, they battled together. Learned one another more intimately than anything else could ever hope to achieve. He’s learned the way Madara works. The way he defends. Every time they clashed, he saw his friend and now—

Now, he thinks he understands.

Uchiha Madara was not a friend, not to him.

Uchiha Madara meant something else. Something more.  

And that is why he cannot look his brother in the eye for the next week.

Tobirama is immediately suspicious and tries to pry, but eventually, Hashirama adapts. He contemplates and he accepts. He overcomes his guilt and goes back to normal.

The only thing he can hope is that Madara accepts too—to a certain extent.

He is, by no means, under any delusions that the Uchiha would feel anything similar to him, but… that doesn’t mean he can’t hope to stay friends. Hope that he didn’t completely ruin their plans for the future. 

He can only pray to the gods that Madara will return to their cave eventually, and he can explain himself.

He’s not expecting the boy to already be there the next time they meet nor is he expecting the silent deadliness of the other.

A strike to the face? Yes, he was ready for that.

A kick to the chest? Definitely.

Madara sitting behind a fire with his arms crossed and glaring without any (real) intent to harm? Most certainly not.  

He freezes barely a foot inside, eyes wide and shock prevalent.

Madara’s narrow and a finger on his arm taps with rapid impatience.

Hashirama is unsure how to approach this.

He was certain Madara was not going to be here today and now he is utterly unprepared.

Silence consumes the space between him and he awaits Madara’s judgement. He was prepared to flee if his life was in danger—he had no plans to fight back. It was his own fault, but he couldn’t die. Not yet.

“Sit.”

It echoes off the walls much like the fire’s glow and Hashirama’s listening before he thinks better. He takes his spot across from the other and Madara’s deadly, unreadable look never ceases.

He wonders what the other is thinking.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He winces, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. 

Where should he start? Should he open his mouth and let it spew or should he try to organize his thoughts?

“Well—?”

“I’m sorry,” he states, cutting the other off. 

Madara’s jaw makes an audible click and Hashirama takes a breath.

“I… let myself get carried away. I don’t want things to change—our plans, I want them to come to fruition, so please, let us forget what—”

“That’s it?”

The Uchiha’s voice is dark. Angry and seething.

Hashirama winces.

“What do you mean—?”

“So you get to, what, make a mess of me and then tell me to forget?!”

He’s… puzzled. Brow furrowed deeply, he glances up and meets Madara’s glare. 

“I don’t think so.” The dark-haired boy leans forward. “You don’t get to just say ‘forget it’ as if you—”

A sudden realization strikes him dumb.

“You… enjoyed it?”

Black eyes widen before they fall shut of emotion. Madara leans back and his jaw clenches.

Hashirama stares in utter shock.

This… was not a direction he ever foresaw. Ever predicted. This was… unprecedented. 

He crawls around the fire before he can think better of it.

Madara tenses but doesn’t shy away as he approaches. 

When he’s close enough, he takes Madara’s face in his hands, tilting and staring into his eyes.

“You don’t regret it?”

The Uchiha’s gaze wavers and shudders.

“Of course I do.”

But—

“You’re the same as I,” he breathes in realization. 

Impossible.

Madara was too loyal for that. Too devoted to his clan to even think about… whatever this is becoming.

Yet the way Madara is looking at him right now…

He pulls the other to him before reality can catch up to him. Madara is more compliant, falling into him instantly as their lips connect. 

The wall brushes his back as he leans against it and Madara follows, sitting astride his lap.

Unfathomable…  

Yet that is certainly Uchiha Madara’s tongue sliding into his mouth, dancing with his. His hands sliding in a Senju’s hair, bodies pressed against one another.

His own fall to a defined chest covered with armor.

The boy in his lap pulls back, roughly tugging the ties and Hashirama finds himself entranced.

Madara’s face is flushed, a deeper crimson than even the last time. His eyes are wide, blazing, and is that a hint of red—?

Armor falls and Madara tugs at his.

“Off.”  

He complies. 

Madara presses to him again, fingers raking his scalp, clenching and tugging.

He hisses at the pain, feeling something hot and heavy jump in his stomach. Their mouths clash once more and his hands land on the Uchiha’s sides, sliding and tentatively discovering the features there.

Madara was lean from a distance, but up close? He was quite defined. Of course he would be. Someone with his prowess certainly would have muscle definition.

Still, Hashirama makes the most of it, determined to map the surface lest he never be allowed back.

The boy above him shudders as his fingers trail against the hardened pebble on his chest and he chases as the boy pulls back.

“Don’t go—” he chokes and Madara falls back to him.

Their kiss is something ravenous. New and inexperienced. They both chase the sensation, revealing in the feeling it brings and the sensations it causes.

Hashirama aches, his pants too tight for comfort, but it was unimportant and unfavorable for the fact that Madara was sitting right above it looking like a gift from the heavens.

They need to talk—to speak and discuss things, he knows that, but he’s also not about to push Madara away. Who knows if this will ever happen again.

His lips trail away, departing with a quiet squelch and Madara sighs, head tilting back as he trails a path. He feels the boy fully relax and he grips his hips to keep him from falling back into the fire. That would surely put a damper on things.

“…rama.”  

He shudders, lust filling him at Madara’s whispered word. His name—he wonders what it would sound like falling from Madara’s lips in a display of ecstasy. 

The boy shifts above him and he follows, lips finding the hollow of the boy’s throat. His teeth scrape and Madara moans.  

It’s a soft sound. Something that would go unheard had he not been listening for it so intently. 

Eager for a repeat, he tries again, tongue sliding out to smooth the sting.

The fingers in his hair clench and tug, Madara pressing him closer than possible.

“Don’t… don’t stop,” is Madara’s command, and who is Senju Hashirama if anything but helpless to comply?

He sucks softly, his aching hardness jumping at the mewl that tumbles unwillingly from the Uchiha’s throat. His legs splay, forcing the other to sit more properly in his lap and he freezes when he feels a familiar hardness pressing against his stomach.

Madara still and goes to pull back but he doesn’t allow it. His hands clench against the boy’s waist and he tugs. The boy slides, slipping further forward and Hashirama raises his knees to keep the boy there.

Red eyes stare down at him and he’s captivated, leaning forward again and taking the Uchiha’s lips without a second thought. 

Madara melts into him, sighing.

They’re lined up now, straining against the fabric of their pants. Hard and aching to the point it hurts. 

Tentatively, Madara slides forward as if testing.

He holds himself still and waits with a baited breath to see what the other will do.

The Uchiha repeats and the friction punches a breath from his lungs. Red eyes pull back, glaring down as he places a hand on Hashirama’s chest. Hesitant, almost, would be the look in Madara’s eyes.

“Is this…” a deep voice starts.

Blinking, Hashirama briefly thanks whatever deity up there for this opportunity and promises to bring them an offering the next time he visits a shrine before he’s hastily nodding.

There’s a knot in his throat so he clears it away as he leans up.

“Fine, fine… You can… keep going.”

Madara flushes deeper, if possible, red gaze falling to the tents between them as he repeats the action. 

Pleasure sparks and Hashirama bites his lip on the noise that wants to fall out, brow furrowing in concentration but his eyes never leave the other. He’s momentarily dismayed that he doesn’t have the Sharingan to capture this moment like Madara. His memory will eventually become fuzzy and fade, but never the other’s. That is the gift of their dōjutsu.

A finger runs along his lip as Madara slides forward again and he gasps. It slips inside and he takes it between his teeth, staring into the three tomoe Sharingan that could take his life without a second thought. 

Pupils dilate and Madara’s breathing stutters before he’s pulling his finger free and leaning forward.

Hashirama accepts the kiss with ease, head tilting as their tongues intertwine. Hands fall to his neck as Madara seems to root himself before he sets a definitive pace. 

Back and forth, back and forth. That is the sway of their dance.

Hashirama helps, guiding the boy with his hands and pushing up to meet him. He finds himself burying his face in the other’s neck as Madara tilts it back, kissing and gently sucking.

“Fuck.”  

His grip on the other’s hips tightens and he jerkily pulls.

Madara keens.

He feels himself coming closer. So, so close, so he pulls back. He cups the other’s sweaty face and Madara’s closed eyes open. Hooded and dangerous, they stare down at him, tilting and nuzzling the grip as the boy guides them to completion.

Madara goes first, tensing above him as his eyes fall shut. His head falls back again and a noise Hashirama’s only heard from tents during nights of celebration accompanies them. It echoes off the cave walls, delicate and beautiful. 

It’s enough to send a jolt of heat through him a moment before he feels himself following.

He tenses, grip bruising on the other’s hip, but gentle on his face as he buries his own in the other’s hair. A scent that he will forever strictly understand as Madara washes over him as he makes a mess of his pants before he relaxes back.

Remarkably, Madara follows, arms coming up to wrap around his neck a moment before Madara’s face is buried there.

Together, they stay like that, letting their heart rates sync and slow while their bodies cool. Discomfort from their pants isn’t even enough to separate them and Hashirama has to wonder where everything changed. 

With him, it’s obvious. He wears his heart on his sleeve. Follows his whims without a second thought, but Madara?

He was far more reserved. Hesitant and cautious. Just what happened to make such a reticent man change as such?

Still, Madara doesn’t make a move to leave so he basks in it, fingers carding through long, black locks, carefully untangling knots when he crosses them. 

The fire dies and slowly, Madara’s body tenses.

Hashirama’s doesn’t, but his mind prepares. He would face the consequences of their actions and just hopes that Madara will spare him given he was quite willing as well.

“We should talk.”

Madara pulls back to stare down at him, no traces of anger or vexation present. It’s simply just… Madara.

It makes Hashirama wary.

“Of course.”

The Uchiha pulls away, grimacing as he tugs lightly on his pants.

“Disgusting,” is the muttered comment and Hashirama silently agrees.

Madara doesn’t settle away from him as he would expect but right next to him. Their bodies touch, feeling the heat of one another and he’s too surprised to say anything.

Silence ticks on. The cave whistles due to a passing breeze and he begins to wonder how they should start when Madara speaks.

“I… am an Uchiha.”

“You are.”

“This. This is undeniably treason.”

“…it is,” he whispers, staring into the cave wall ahead of them much like Madara.

“What are we doing?”

Plenty of things. This was their third meeting in years, and already things were so different than then. 

He didn’t know what to think of the past. What being friends meant to him and such, but now that he’s older. He’s almost an adult, he thinks he can grasp what he was feeling like back then.

Was Madara a friend because he truly was, or was that the name Hashirama gave the emotions he felt for the other due to not knowing anything else? 

He didn’t have friends in his clan—they were family.

He didn’t have friends outside his clan—they were the enemy.

So, what truly then is a friend?  

“I… want to make a village with you.”

“Yes, I—”

He cuts off Madara’s irritated reply without a second glance. “—I want to find peace with you. I want to make a home with you. Those years ago, we… didn’t know what such things were, did we? What truly is a friend? What truly… is more?”  

Madara’s head snaps his way and he doesn’t need to look to know the glare sent his way—a defense mechanism, it would seem.

“You know, when we parted ways last week, I was guilty because you are an Uchiha. You are the enemy and you have killed many of my clan.”

“You’ve also—” The Uchiha seethes.

“I know,” he states, turning is head. 

Madara stares back at him. Despite the cold and the time since, his face is still flushed and his eyes, beautiful. 

“I know, which is why I felt the guilt, but… I began thinking. Of us. Of the past. Of where we are heading. We were nothing but children then, but now. Now we are adults in the eyes of society. If our parents fell now, we would head our clan. That’s how it is.”

He takes a breath, hand flexing on his knee. His gaze catches the motion and stays, refusing to meet the other’s. All the things he’s prepared to say are gone. They can’t be used because of what happened mere moments ago. What he thought was an impossibility truly wasn’t. 

Now, they must head forward.

“You are very dear to me, Madara. Always have been. Even now, but the question is,” he states, dark brown eyes flicking to the other’s, “What am I to you?”

Madara tenses. 

Hashirama expects him to flee in a fit of seething rage but he doesn’t. He stays sitting next to him but his eyes look away.

Silence lingers.

“You… are an enemy.”

Hashirama hums.

“You are… insufferable. A nuisance both on the battlefield and off. It would do my clan great honor to kill you here and now.”

“Yet you do not.”

“Yet I do not.”

“Why?”

Madara’s jaw clenches so hard Hashirama fears he will have to learn how to heal teeth until he speaks.

“I do not know. I vowed to be rid of you and I successfully did for years. I unlocked my Sharingan because of you. The loss you caused me. I was solid. Unmoveable. But then—” He takes a breath. “Then I saw you. On that river bank, alone and looking so… I hadn’t seen you outside of war since then and I found myself… staying.”

Hashriama blinks as he realizes this was going further back than he expected. His heart rate begins to speed as he stares at the other’s side profile.

“Then you saw me and I fled, but you… caught me. I was caught.”

You let me catch you, is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back quickly. Madara looks on the edge as is, who knows what will truly tumble him off it.

“And then you called them beautiful.” The Uchiha’s voice cracks and he reaches up to brush against the bottom of his eye. “These eyes that you should fear. That should instill terror at their mere sight. These eyes that are sacred to my people.”

They truly are too, he thinks, resisting the urge to reach out and brush against the underside right along Madara.

“So I allowed myself one more chance. Once more I would give myself to be rid of you fully, but you were so naive. I could have set up an ambush and your life would be over. I could have told someone and your clan would have been slaughtered, but you chose to believe me. To trust me and I—” Another crack. “I decided to accept you. I missed you. The freedom I felt with you. The lack of responsibilities. I missed it.”

“I missed you too,” he states before he’s aware.

Madara looks at him then, black eyes shimmering. No, not from tears. Uchiha Madara does not cry, but they were certainly brimming with emotion.

“So I thought why not,” the dark-haired boy continues, eyes staying. “Maybe I could have this. Just for a little while. Until we became heads. A shinobi’s life isn’t long, after all. It could be years, but it could also be tomorrow.”

How cynical to view their fathers in such a way, but Hashirama sympathizes. He understands. He loves his father, of course, but he is not blind. His father’s ideals are what is forcing them to be apart. His ideals prevent them from even breathing the word ceasefire. There will be no peace with their fathers alive, that they know.

So they must wait.

“Then you kissed me and I… found myself wanting something I never knew I could want.”

And Hashirama would be lying if he wasn’t the exact same.

“You’re not going to… leave?” he asks.

Those black eyes harden. They spin red, tomoe appearing in determination, but Hashirama doesn’t fear.

“No.”

One word. Spoken so softly yet it rocked the Senju’s world. 

Inconceivable. 

Improbable.

Yet, Madara said the word.

He made it reality.

Hashirama is ecstatic.  

“I—”

“I don’t know what— this is,” Madara snarls, hands fisting the front of Hashirama’s shirt as he tugs him close. “But it will not interfere in war. When we fight, I will still try to kill you!” the boy snarls.

Don’t let me do it, his eyes read.

Hashirama smiles, effortlessly and happily.

“But it won’t last forever,” he states.

Slowly, Madara’s grip loosens before, finally, he lets go.

“No… I suppose it won’t.”

“And this—”

“—Don’t!”  

He blinks at the harshness of the boy’s words, biting his lip when he sees the flush cross the other’s face as he avoids looking in his direction. Quietly, he lets the subject drop without a fight.

It seems that whatever this is, it isn’t going away any time soon and for that, he’s giddy. Practically vibrating from excitement while Madara scowls from under his unruly hair.

On an impulse, Hashirama leans in.

Madara tenses but doesn’t evade as lips press against his cheek.

Quick and simple, the Senju pulls back, smug while the Uchiha blinks, startled.

They leave not long after their conversion ends, the discomfort of their clothes becoming too much. Discussions of precautions and worry aren’t needed—they both know the repercussion for what would happen if they were caught and they both understand. It would be equally bad for each. Neither of them having it worse than the other.

Tobirama is still out when he returns and for a moment, he tenses, prepared to hear the words he did so many years ago but instead, his brother raises a brow.

“Father has you patrolling?”

He forces a smile, shaking his head.

“I… had a bad dream. I needed to clear my head.”

Tobirama assesses him quietly, red eyes flicking down his form and up again. Briefly, a smirk plays across his features before it’s gone.

“Whatever you say, Anija.” 

Tobirama leaves and Hashirama brushes it off.

*   *   *

Contrary to previous interactions, they do manage to get things done during their meet-ups. They haven’t kissed since then, so that might have something to do with it, but it’s been three months, four meet-ups, and already Hashirama’s improved his Mokuton and he thinks they’re getting better at their spars.

This time, however, he holds another plan.

A rock slips underneath his foot, throwing him off kilter before he rights himself hastily. The bag of materials—scrolls and ink—clank cursorily.

He freezes, listening for anything yet the forest remains deadly silent—as it always is in late winter.

Snow crunches beneath his feet and he picks up his pace.

They were both seventeen now—Madara’s birthday passing some months ago and it was now nearing spring. 

Madara’s already there when he enters, dropping his sack and shedding his armor. Snow falls and melts as it encounters the warm rock, leaving a puddle in its wake.

“What’s that?”

He smiles wide as he grabs his sack and darts over.

The Uchiha doesn’t even tilt away as he plops down too close for comfort, leaning into the warmth around him.

“I’m glad you asked. Our future.”

Madara raises a brow as he dumps the contents in front of them, miscellaneous stationary materials roll about.

“If we truly wish to achieve our village one day, I figured we should start thinking semantics.”

He can see Madara attempt to stifle a smile and it makes his own blossom. The sudden urge to lean in and kiss the other is strong but he stifles it. 

This was serious time.

Except, as he stares at the unorganized mess in front of him, he comes up blank.

“Um… Where should we start?”

Immediately, there’s a blow to his head and he winces.

“Hey, what was—”

“You’re such an idiot. You brought all this out here and you don’t even know where to start?!”  

A doom cloud befalls him as he hunches forward. He knew it was stupid, but it sounded good at the time.

Madara sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Whatever, it’s fine. You brought materials, so I guess you’re not completely useless.”

And like that, he perks back up, smiling.

Madara avoids his gaze as he holds out a hand.

“Hand me a scroll and some ink.”

He all but falls over himself to comply.

Leisurely, the scroll is unrolled, smoothed and pressed in front of them. The ink is opened and a brush is picked up.

“Okay, so starting off, will it only be us?” Madara asks and Hashirama stares.

Of course it won’t be just them. They need their clans too. That’s the whole point of this!

Madara must read his mind because he sighs and rubs a temple.

“No, you fool, our clans. Will it just be the two of ours?”

Well, he hadn’t exactly gotten that far with his thinking, but… it doesn’t sound bad. Letting people in.

“No,” he finally lands on. 

Madara nods. “I thought so too. There is power in numbers and if we… truly want peace, we want to build a place where other clans wouldn’t even think about touching. My question is, how will we decide on who can stay?”

He tilts his head, long hair falling over his shoulder in confusion.

“Why can’t all of them stay?”

Madara stares at him a moment before he sighs again. “I forgot just how… free you are. Hashirama, we can’t just accept everybody. Not everyone will be good.”

“But then we can change them, can’t we?”

“That’s a naive way of thinking.”

“But not impossible.”

“Okay, let’s think about it like this. The Hyuuga.”

Confused, Hashirama stares silently as Madara seems to search for something. When he must come up short, he glares. 

“You idiot! Outside of the Senju, they are the Uchiha’s greatest rivals. I don’t particularly like them.”

“But that won’t stop you from accepting them if they truly wished for peace.”

The Uchiha freezes, staring at the empty scroll in front of him.

“…No, I suppose it wouldn’t, but I don’t accept their way of living. There needs to be rules in place.”

“‘Way of living’?”

Madara nods. “We want a village where people can be free. The Hyuga are anything but. It’s not… relatively known, but we are Uchiha. There are not many secrets that get past us when we can see inside someone’s mind. We caught a Hyuga once in our lands. We intergotated properly and we discovered their cursemark sealing. It caused tensions to soar because they have a dōjutsu just like us yet instead of revering it, they imprison it. Use it as a tool to control. I don’t like it. The main family is free, but the branch… they’re as good as slaves.”

Hashirama could see how that could be problematic and he understands now what Madara is saying.

“So, we have a screening for clans wanting to amalgamate with us, assessing their sincerity and desires. I want everyone to join that wish too, but… I understand what you’re saying about the Hyuuga. That cannot be acceptable.”

“Exactly, so we must set rules first.”

“The Uchiha and Senju must agree. Despite everything else, we are the foundation of this village. We must acclimate before we take on others.”

“I agree,” Madara states, tapping the end of the brush against the floor. “But we both are here, right now, representing our clans. Whatever we decide, it speaks for both, no?”

Hashirama smiles, leaning slightly into the boy. 

“Yes.”

Madara glances up shyly from the corner of his eye, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

They stay like that for a few bated breaths before one of them clears their throat and business it is.

“So, first things first…”

*   *   *

They spend hours deciding rules, bouncing thoughts off of one another, and deciding the structure of the village’s ruling. 

Madara is quite reserved in his way of thinking, cautious and tentative, whereas Hashirama is wild and care-free. They balance each other perfectly. Hashirama doesn’t let Madara miss things due to his wary nature and neither does Madara allow Hashirama to act brashly.

The first thing they decided was that there would be a council made up of the clan heads. Starting off, it would just be the two of them. If another wished to join, they both must agree, and as the council grows, so do the votes. Nothing needs to be unanimous, but the majority will win.

Next, they decided on a set of rules a clan must agree to before they joined. Where the Uchiha and Senju have known each other for years despite war, other clans are foreign. There will be different ways of thinking and different opinions. This set of rules can always be reviewed and added to, but never taken from. So, if a clan joins and they carry with them opinions that the rest of the council agree on, it will be added.

There will be a leader—someone who resides in the village, but they have yet to grace the topic due to Madara’s paranoia about strength. 

“I want this village to protect my brother. What good is it if it’s weak?”

And Hashirama must concede that, so they think forces. 

“First and foremost, we are shinobi. Without war, we will be bored even if we are at peace,” Madara states and Hashirama nods.

“We should start with education.”

“We can get to that momentarily. By the time this village comes to fruition, there will be many shinobi without a meaning.”

He sighs. That was true too.

“Okay, so a system. One where we assess strength and give missions based on a person’s individual strength.”

“Yes, exactly that, plus we need order. Rankings.”

“Like S-D?”

“Precisely. We should also have a system to protect the civilians. Not everyone is ninja.”

Hashirama hums. “No, they’re not. Okay, so a protection system?”

“Yes, for fallout. In cases of war.”

“Hopefully, there won’t be any war after this is over.”

Madara snorts. “Too naive. There will always be war. Thus is the case of human nature.”

He doesn’t like it, but he also doesn’t refute as it is true.

They fall into a deep discussion after that, speaking of forces and infantry. They wouldn’t dare plan for an attack, but defense would always be needed and that’s what Madara prioritizes his focus on. 

Before they know it, time passes and they’re both rushing back to their own clans.

“Izuna’s going to be so suspicious,” Madara mutters under his breath as they douse the fire and gather their gear.

“Izuna?”

Dark eyes shoot him a glance and away.

“My little brother. You should know his name by now.”

Truthfully, Hashirama knows no other Uchiha names other than Madara’s. It does, however, ring a bell.

“Tobi. He speaks of him sometimes.”

Immediately, Madara’s eyes narrow as he turns his full body. “What?”

“Tobirama. It seems they are rivals just as you and I.”

“Your brother, the one with the most prejudice against my clan, the one we call the White Reaper for the slaughter he’s done to my family, speaks of Izuna?”

Was it him or was there something deadly in Madara’s voice? 

“Yes, and as far as I know, your brother feels the exact same regarding the Senju,” he points out but Madara doesn’t look amused. “And it’s not like Tobi’s saying anything bad. Just mutterings under his breath during our retreats from battle. You know, Izuna’s made Tobi develop all new kinds of jutsu, right? He’s a very powerful shinobi. Very fast, like you.”

It seems Madara doesn’t know if he should be angry or flattered as his gaze flicks between red and black. Eventually, the Uchiha growls and sighs.

“Whatever. I don’t care, just, when this is all over, keep your brother as far away from mine.”

Confused, Hashirama doesn’t understand why, but he also knows when he should and shouldn’t question Madara, so he merely nods.

*   *   *

Discussions of a leader are inevitable and Hashirama has time to ponder it until their next meeting. 

It was quite easy to come to a conclusion. Quite obvious, really, the answer.

“What?” is Madara’s incredulous voice as it bounces off the stone walls.

“I said you should be our leader when we unite.”

The Uchiha stares, dark hair falling into his face—it’s gotten so much longer in their time together alone. Soon, it would be enough to cover his eyes if he so wished—befuddled and dumbfounded.

“I… where did that even come from?”

Hashirama finally fully steps into the cave and sheds his armor as his precursory routine before he plops down beside the other.

“I’ve been thinking about it. You would make an excellent leader, and given that I’m the one suggesting the truce, it would make sense for you to lead. Both of us giving and getting, you see.”

Madara, still confused, looks at him as if he’s lost his head. 

“Not even taking into consideration what our clans will think, what makes you think I’d even want it?”

Hashirama’s head tilts. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Pales fingers rub dark eyes in exhaustion. Madara finally puts the brush he was holding down to turn and face him completely.

“Hashirama—”

His name rolling off Madara’s tongue makes his heart skip and his mind meld. It was truly a beautiful sound.

“—we don’t even know what we will be like as leaders. I could be horrible, for all you know.”

“You won’t,” he states confidently. He’s seen the way Madara commands on the battlefield. Breathtaking and strong willed. Truthfully, he could think of no one better for a leader position than him. “You’ll protect the village until your final breath. Always. Who better fit than you?”

Madara’s jaw shuts with an audible click and he seems to be at a loss for words.

“I—”

“You don’t need to accept now. We have possibly years before this is reality. Just… think about it. No one would be better fitted than you.”

“Did you even consider yourself?”

“Yes, briefly before I remembered how unyielding you are in your loyalties.”

Silence becomes them momentarily as Madara works through his thoughts. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and thoughtful.

“I will… keep that in mind. A lot can change over the course of a few months, let alone years. We can discuss this at a later time.”

It’s not a ‘no’ and Hashirama smiles wide and giddy. Their village would truly be protected with Uchiha Madara leading it. Undoubtably. 

“But moving aside from the semantics of who, let’s think of what this leader will do.”

He opens his mouth but Madara shakes his head.

“There will be a council to pass laws and even judgement. Orders, too, but they can’t hold all the power. This leader, they will need sway but not too much and even then, there should be an escape plan should the leadership fall into the wrong hands.”

“Do you have an idea?”

Madara chews on his lip, dark eyes flicking back every now and then with a concentrated look in his gaze.

“We… still have yet to go into the fine details of anything really, but this… leader will most-likely be rooted. Hardly able to leave if ever, considering they are going to be the village's first line of defense. They would need a partner, would they not? Someone to keep them in check. Someone to make sure they don’t go crazy with power or to stand in during cases of emergencies when the leader can’t be there?”

Momentarily, Hashirama is stunned. He hadn’t thought of this at all and the more Madara continues, the more glances shot his way, the more he realizes where this is going.

He smiles.

“Are you saying you want me to rule with you?”

Face flushing crimson, the Uchiha looks away with a scowl.

“Of course not!” the boy snaps. “I’m saying nothing is ever set in stone. This leader could be twisted down the line. Could become corrupt. I’m just saying that there should be someone with equal power able to dissuade it.”

“Equal power means it’s not one leader then but two.”

Dark eyes snap back and glare. “Then do you have a better idea?”

Hashirama smiles, a lightness falling over him at his thoughts.

“An advisor. Someone without power in name, but doing exactly like you said. Guiding and assisting when needed. Someone who is trusted implicitly. A shadow, so to speak.”

Something akin to approval shines in Madara’s gaze as the boy looks on thoughtfully.

“That’s actually… not bad.”

Hashirama beams.

“But the leader can’t choose them.”

“Why not?”

“Then what is the point of a safeguard against an unfavorable commander if they’re the one choosing?”

The Uchiha had a point.

“We’re not wanting the leader to be a sovereignty, correct?” Madara asks.

“Of course not.”

“Then how are you thinking the descendant shall be chosen?”

That was an easy enough answer. “By the previous.”

Madara nods as if he expected that. “Then I say the same for the advisor. That way, if the leadership changes during an advisor’s time, they are allowed to assess the new leader and appoint their own successor with that opinion in mind.”

He’s not exactly… astonished with Madara’s way of thinking. He knew the Uchiha’s mind was leagues above his—another reason Madara should lead instead of him—but he is immensely proud. Look at them. Seventeen and not even yet head of their own clan, but dreaming of a future and mapping it out.  

He’s ecstatic. 

A hand reaches out before he thinks better. 

Madara doesn’t jump but he does shoot him a questioning look that he brushes away as he pulls the other boy close.

Their third kiss is different than the other. It’s slower and it’s meaningful. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, breath brushing against the other’s lips as he pulls away slightly to look into black eyes.

Madara’s dazed, if only slightly, and his throat clicks as he tries for an answer.

“For what?”

“Being you.”

Eyes widen and he’s dipping low again to take the other’s lips with his once more. 

Still new and novel, he presses forth this time, surprised when Madara allows it—he was certain it would have had to be a fight to get the boy under him. 

Furs they’ve accumulated over the course of the winter lie next to them and Hashirama angles their bodies that direction. Ebony hair splays out, red eyes staring up at him as he pulls back to gaze upon the other. A hand raises up on its own and Madara leans into the touch.

“Is this…”

The other’s jaw clenches as his eyes flick away. No words are spoken but there is a definitive tug against the front of his shirt. He falls, allowing himself to be maneuvered until he’s resting in the cradle of the Uchiha’s thighs.

Lips are on his the next moment and forgotten excitement ignites.

Why did they wait so long to do this again?  

He knows that they both were anxious. Something so forbidden yet, he craves it. Longs for it. Neither of them wanted to break the quiet oath unspoken between them.

Until now.

A sigh is breathed against him and he shifts, legs sliding over his waist. Hands wrap around his neck and in mere seconds, Uchiha Madara is wrapped so completely around him, it is a question where he ends and the other begins.

He props himself on an arm, his other kneading the flesh of Madara’s thigh—it was bigger than he expected and he can feel the corded muscle there flex and tense with his ministrations. Madara was a powerhouse. Could certainly squeeze him to death with his thighs alone. 

They align, their quickly hardening length pressing against one another and he can’t help but follow the urge to press. He shifts forward ever so slightly, applying pressure.

A moan, soft and quiet escapes the other’s mouth and he pulls back slightly to see the spreading flush crossing the other’s cheeks.

Madara isn’t anything, if not stubborn, and by the way his teeth fall into his lip tells Hashirama that noise will not be given freely.

He feels himself smile.

Red eyes narrow suspiciously.

He retakes the other into a deep kiss, saliva mixing as his hand slides from that meaty thigh to further up. Madara tenses under his as his fingers skim the boy’s hips, as they tug against cloth, untucking Madara’s tanzen and letting it fall open.

He pauses, letting Madara decide their course of action.

Legs tense around his waist, hands in his hair tug and his hand slides against the soft, warm flesh of Madara’s stomach.

He swallows the sigh that leaves Madara’s mouth before he realizes that would negate the reasons for his actions and trails his kisses further away.

Lost in his own pleasure, the Uchiha lets him, head tilting to further accompany his actions.

His fingers skim, feeling the defined muscle of Madara’s abdomen before they trail up and grasp the hard, pebbled flesh of his chest between his fingers.

Another gasp and he smiles against the boy’s throat. Not quite what he wants but he’s not done.

His hand trails down, down, down, until—

Wry hair is the first thing he is aware of and he doesn’t need to look to know it's just as dark as the hair on top.

Madara’s breathing stutters as he realizes just how close Hashirama has come to his most sensitive part and his fingers tighten.

Hashirama contains a wince as he’s forcefully brought back up, staring directly into the crimson eyes.

“You are…” Madara’s voice is deep, filled with emotion that Hashirama can neither name nor face for he, too, wasn’t ready to come to terms with that. The steady chest under his stutters and puffs out as the Uchiha takes a breath, scarlet eyes steeling. “The first,” he finishes, voice barely a whisper.

Numerous emotions swell within Hashirama. The first, pride. He was the one to touch someone as powerful as Uchiha Madara. He and no one else. 

The next is excitement. His own and the other’s, whichever, it builds in him deeply, heating and sweltering his insides as it takes his arousal to new heights.

As for the last…

That, he does not touch. It was new and it was not something he was yet ready to face, so instead, he gives the boy below him a lazy smile before he dips his head to press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips.

“As you are mine,” he murmurs before he lets his fingers trail down.

Madara gasps again, loud in the quiet of their cave, as Hashirama’s hand wraps around his length completely.

It was hot in his hand. Heavy and pulsating. He gives a few experimental tugs—he had never done this to anything but himself during those days when his needs refused to leave—and Madara’s legs slide from his waist to the furs below, opening further. 

He cannot stem the urge to pull back and look at what he’s doing, raising up on an arm. 

The flush has crept onto the boy’s neck and chest, making the pale skin something similar to the sky during a warm sunset. Black hair splays a wild, unruly halo and the red eyes are hidden by Madara’s eyelids, squeezed shut from the pleasure he is experiencing.

Madara’s hand grasp Hashirama’s shoulders, fingernails sinking in as the Senju tightens his grip into something more confident, using the other’s own fluids to ease the way.

A pale mouth opens, tongue peaking out to swipe the bottom of his lip before it returns to teeth as the boy bites back another moan.

“Let me hear you,” he mutters, shifting his body to lean more on his knees.

Madara’s eyes peered open and a sharp thrill zinged through him at the sight of the Sharingan. They’re something he’s become quite acquainted with outside of battle—always appearing when a strong wave of emotion swells too much within the Uchiha. Briefly, he is saddened by the fact that Madara will eventually come to control that urge, but he frets not. It simply means he’ll have to get better at pulling them out.

The Uchiha stubbornly bites his lip as he sends a weak glare.

Hashirama finds himself biting his own as he squeezes, wrist flickering in a way that he finds pleasurable on himself.

Crimson eyes widen.

A mouth opens.

“Fuck,” is the whispered curse, coming out broken and beautiful.

He smiles in victory, repeating the action as it earns another soft groan.

Legs fall open wider and dark hair bunches as Madara shifts, hips lifting to meet Hashirama’s strokes as it chases the feeling.

A sudden thought crosses Hashirama’s mind, fast and swift, blinking in and out before he realizes. He’s following through with it without another contemplation, rash in his thinking. His tongue meets the weeping head and Madara all but rises off the furs at the sensation, a moan leaving his throat without fail.

It bounces off the walls, needy and desperate. 

Fingers find Hashirama’s hair again as his tongue laves the underside of Madara’s erection, tracing the veins he feels as he attempts to commit them to memory. 

It was hot in his mouth, weighty against his tongue as he attempted to take more. A tug to his head has him sliding forward, pushing it further and he feels the tip touch the back of his throat. 

Gag wouldn’t be the sensation he would use to describe the feeling of their intimate encounter inside his mouth, it didn’t go deep enough for that, but it did make him realize he wouldn’t be able to take any more.

He uses his hand to make up for the lack of experience his throat can’t give, tongue attempting to do something other than sit there, and Madara’s reaction?

Well, that’s priceless.  

His body tense, fingers tightening as noises Hashirama knows the boy would rather die than admit to leave his mouth one after another.

“Hashirama,” is a breathless reply.

“Don’t stop,” is a desperate command.

Uchiha Madara doesn’t beg, but it’s damn near with the way his voice sounds, the pants and the moans.

Hashirama is useless, completely and utterly enraptured with the beauty above him, and he can’t help but reach into his own clothes to grasp himself. 

He’s aching, hard and wet. It hurts and he sighs his relief through his nose when he finally begins to get himself off.

Harsh hands tug and he’s forced forward again, tongue pressing and easing the way as Madara gasps above him.

“Hashirama, hnn, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop. I–I’ll kill y- ou—”  

The word is broken off into a high-pitched keen as Madara suddenly tenses harsher than he has before. 

Hashirama only gets that warning to prepare himself before heat floods his mouth, foreign and carrying a particular taste. He can’t quite decide if he likes it or not as it hits the back of his throat before flowing down it.

He sucks Madara through his orgasm, pulling away softly when the boy gives the harsh tug on his hand. He doesn’t stray far, however, forehead coming to rest on the Uchiha’s hip as his hand strokes desperately at himself. In mere seconds, he’s flowing over, making a mess of the furs below them.

Their panting breaths are their only company as Hashirama tucks them both back inside, tying Madara’s tanzen to keep him from the cold before crawling up and collapsing next to the boy.

They stare at the ceiling, stalactites mocking him once more this time carrying a knowing glint.

Eventually, their bodies cool and their breaths even, the only accompanying sound is the dying crackle of the fire.

“You…”

He waits, breath baited for Madara’s judgment.

“Are so impulsive.”

The boy sits up suddenly to glare down at him, black eyes not containing an ounce of anger.

Hashirama can only smile.

Madara scowls.

“You liked it, did you not? I still have the taste of you on my tongue.”

Crimson that finally managed to go away comes back with force, coating the boy’s neck with its excitement. 

“You—!”

Hashirama rolls away from the blow, laughing lightly as he sits up too. He pulls Madara to his lap, noting the way the other lets him with minimal fuss. Fingers thread through the mess of ebony hair and Madara leans into it.

This intimacy is new. Of course it is, but even so, it causes complications. 

Whatever… this was between them, it was growing and from the way Madara is looking at him, eyes vermillion with emotion, he thinks it will continue to grow despite the never-ending war their families are in.

What are they to do about it? Could Hashirama truly face Madara on the battlefield and still aim to kill?

He stares up at the boy nuzzling into his hand like a cat without the accompanying purr and decides that no, he can’t.  

But how is that any different than before? 

He’s never wanted to kill Madara. Peace has always been the plan, so why should it change now, because they were becoming closer, becoming something more than friends?

Easy. 

It won’t.

Resolved, Hashirama leans forth.

Madara accepts the kiss complacently, nuzzling his nose against Hashirama’s as they pull away.

Their eyes open, merely a few inches from one another, and something courses inside him. It overtakes him much as a similar emotion overtakes Madara’s eyes.

He bites it away, tucking it inside and folding it before putting it in a box.

It was too soon.

It was too new.

It was—

“We should go soon.”

He blinks at Madara’s words, black eyes now, staring back at him. He still has yet to leave his lap but that was okay. He was a comfortable weight. Comforting. 

Hashirama trails his thumb across the Uchiha’s bottom lip, still red and vexed despite the time since, and nods.

Silently, they go about, tucking scrolls away and adorning their armor. 

Madara takes their items—now collected in a sack—and makes his way for the mouth of the cave. They trade back and forth on who hides their plans. Madara was far too paranoid to keep anything consistent. This cave was the only exception given the span of time between visits and the boy’s confidence in the natural camouflage.

He tenses, preparing to take off for the trees when Madara’s voice stops in. He glances back to find the boy facing the opposite way, head turned only slightly so his words are clear.

“Next time… I will not be the only one to… to do that. Got it?”

The moonlight barely allows for him to make out another flush before Madara’s disappearing into the forest.

He’s left stunned by the words before his own desire ignites once again. His skin heats as he turns away, smile playing on his lips.

Yes, until next time.

*   *   *

With spring, comes rebirth. It is the time when winter defrosts and the plants grow. Animals awake and the weather warms. 

It’s his favorite season.

But also his least.

It’s a time where war ascends that of its leisure winter counterpart. Then, everyone is too preoccupied with surviving to truly fight. With spring, however, calamity awakens like a beast from hibernation, which is why Senju Butsuma calls a clan meeting, preparing to get a headstart.  

His fingers ache from the pressure of grasping his knees. He does his best to keep his face impassive as his father’s voice rings out across the room, blood rushing through his head too fast for him to realize how close to a fainting spell he is.

“The last frost melted yesterday and the Uchiha are surely to be arousing now. I think we should be the first to strike, seeing as they have been given the upper hand that the surprise the first strike gives for the last few years.”

A few elders mumble as Tobirama shifts next to him.

He doesn’t look away from his fixated spot lest he spew something blasphemous.

To fight now would be cowardly. An ambush that the Senju have never once pondered for they were above such means, but it seems their loss from the previous year has left his father in anger. That is the only reason he would offer up the suggestion of a sneak attack.

It’s unbecoming. 

He glances at Butsuma briefly. 

Quite old he has become—something unheard of for their time. His hair is graying and his skin wrinkling. It will lead the elders to agree a lot more quickly considering they were the same, if not younger, than him.

Butsuma’s voice continues, carrying on with the plan of how, without the reason of why.  

Hashirama can tell by the others’ faces, they are enjoying the siren’s song of his father’s voice and he clenches his teeth.

“Their compound is utterly defenseless for the moment. Let us attack and take the sway of the season before anyone else!”

It would be slaughter.

Attacking the compound—the home would take many women and children’s lives. A compound is not a battleground. It’s one of the only taboos each clan has never crossed.

His tongue is quicker than his brain.

“Father, that is not a good idea.”

Silence accompanies him and he internally winces. The suspicions toward him from his father had diminished over the years, but he knows that it will never really go away. The… utter hate and distrust his father holds for the Uchiha clan is something that Hashirama’s never seen in anyone else.

He’s done his best over the years to bite his tongue and accept action, but this… this was different.

“And why, do say, do you think that?”

“It would be slaughter, Father,” he states, finally pulling his fingers loose from his knees. They ache with their newfound freedom and he ignores it as he shifts his position to a seiza. “Neither of us has ever graced a… compound before. It would be—”

“The perfect opportunity. Honestly, we were all fools to never do it before.”

His father’s voice is hard and stubborn. There would be no changing the man’s mind on this, that much is quite prevalent. 

He bites back his remark and nods once. 

Now, Hashirama’s thoughts whirl with the questions of what and how.  

He couldn’t let this slaughter happen. Not only would it deplete their relations further, any chance of a ceasefire might disappear before he’s even taken head with this. No one easily forgives a coward’s attack.

“Now, we need to do this quite hastily. Patrolling of the area needs to increase and we must send a scout.”

The rest of the meeting is drowned out as the elders put their voices in as well as the ones of many others.

Some Senju look sick, unappeased by the idea as Hashirama.

For some reason, he braves a glance toward his brother, uncertain of which emotion he’ll find.

Tobirama is blank as ever, much like his own expression, but he wouldn't be a good older brother if he couldn’t read his little one without ease.

Tobirama was disturbed. He, too, doesn’t like this idea and something eases in his chest.

If his brother thought the same, it wasn’t just his… whatever with Madara clouding his judgment—not that he thought that!

But doubt has a way of eating him sometimes, especially when he’s been conversing with the enemy.

If Tobirama, the one who held almost as much prejudice as their father, thinks this is a bad idea, it truly was.

The night creeps faster than expected and the meeting lasts longer than it should. By the time it’s over, Hashirama tells Tobirama he’s heading to bed before sneaking out through the window.

Miraculously, it was a night he was meeting Madara.

He paces anxiously inside their cave, mind running a mile a minute.

He can’t tell Madara what is happening—not only does that cross the line, it breaks the oath to their clans. They can’t do this if they so easily become traitors. Where will their peace be then?

He also knows he can’t let the Uchiha perish due to his father’s idiotic, cowardly decision. 

Fuck!

What does he do?!  

Madara enters the cave a half an hour later, black eyes soft and lax. The barest hints of a smile plays on his lips before it falls away as he takes in Hashirama’s expression.

Hashirama freezes in front of the other, foot out in preparation to take another step in his anxious pacing before he slams it down and turns.

“What’s wrong?”

His face pinches as his eyes fall. Thundering in his chest and ears, his heart beats for a reason different than it normally does in this cave.

He’s scared.

Such a stupid, dense realization yet it crosses his mind and he finds that it’s true.

He, Senju Hashirama, is scared.  

I think I’m going to be sick.  

“Hashirama.” The voice is hard and concerned. Madara takes a step forward and he takes one back as he wipes his hands on his clothes.

“I—”

They freeze at his voice and he looks with eyes he knows must be a hint crazed. Words spill out.

“I am going hunting.”

Immediately, Madara’s brow furrows into confusion.

“H… Hunting?”

He swallows thickly as the metaphor comes fast in his mind. He nods.

“Yes. Me and—and—and,” he stops, takes a breath and runs a trembling hand through his hair. 

Madara notes it with his eyes as they narrow.

“Yes,” he states again, this time more steady. “My father and me.”

The reaction is instantaneous. Black eyes narrow and Madara tenses. He seems confused as to why Hashirama is speaking of this but he’s listening intently. Madara did carry far more brains than he ever would.

“He… He decided today that we should. He… marked a deer last year and now he wants to take it and its… family.” The word is whispered, eyes falling away before he can see the other’s reaction. “He thinks we should ambush them when they’re most docile. I don’t— can’t say when, but I can say that the deer—they should be prepared. I don’t—I don’t want its family to die, too, because my father is an idiot. There are so many fawns with them. They shouldn’t—”

“Enough.” 

He tenses at Madara’s voice and glances up to see a hard gaze.

Black eyes rake his form, searching for something before they flick back up.

They stand like that in front of one another silently for an eternity before Madara’s jaw clenches and his brow furrows. He looks so angry that Hashirama tenses unconsciously in preparation for an attack, but instead, Madara turns away.

“The… deer will be prepared.”

With that, the Uchiha disappears into the night and Hashirama lets out a breath. 

There were no thank yous. No gratitude, but he knows Madara will take his information and be subtle. He’s not sure how, but he knows that if it were him, he’d implement things without notice of either his clan or the enemy.

He’s left with his thoughts that night. Whatever this was that was between them, it shifted. Again.  

He doesn’t know if Madara will reject or accept it next time they meet— if they meet—but he will accept anything regardless.

It was treason, but also not quite. He knew what he was doing as did the other, but… the words never tumbled from his tongue. Madara was simply taking with him a story of Hashirama and his future hunting exploits! That’s it!

He sighs before he, too, leaves into the darkness of the night.

*   *   *

The scout reports that the Uchiha are preparing early this year as well.

Butsuma isn’t happy to hear the news and the ambush is cancelled in preparations for their defense to be built as well. It seems the elder Senju believed that Tajima had similar thoughts to him and now both clans await the first attack.

Hashirama is immensely relieved but doesn’t let it show—truly. This is the only time he’s ever mastered a poker face and his father is none the wiser.

The first battle happens two weeks later. There are deaths on both sides, but nothing like that that would have happened during the ambush. 

Madara meets him head on, eyes steely but there’s something there, deep within. A thank you that makes everything worth it. That makes the guilt he’s been feeling at his distraught loyalties ease just a bit.

It was for the best.

*   *   *

As he thought previously, something did change between them.

Madara sought skinship more than ever before. It was subtle at first. A hand against his here, a kiss there, but as time lingered, the Uchiha became more bold in his actions until he would all but seat himself in Hashirama’s lap during their meetings.

He was also quite enthusiastic when it came to their new sexual prowess, returning Hashirama’s favor with quiet enthusiasm. 

The Senju was utterly enraptured. 

“What about children?”

Madara’s question brings him to the present, hands tightening against the Uchiha’s lithe waist. He leans forward, front pressing to the other’s back as he tries to garner a glimpse of what Madara is writing on the scroll.

“What about them?”

Madara shifts in his lap, head turning back so he can scowl.

Hashirama smiles sweetly and he can’t resist the urge to press a kiss to his lover’s cheek. 

The term, quick and swift, leaves his mind as fast as it enters but he can’t find it in himself to deny it. 

They weren’t friends anymore, certainly, but they also weren’t life partners. Couldn’t be. Not yet, so then that begged the question of what they were?

Lovers, Hashirama muses as he takes in Madara’s dark eyes now softened by his action, staring at him expectantly. It fits.  

“We should broach the subject of the academy.”

He hums, burying his face in Madara’s neck as the boy turns back. Vibrations accompany his as Madara’s voice echoes in their cave.

“For example, what ages are considered children and what are adults? We live during a time where life expectancy is thirty, if lucky.”

Hashirama contemplates silently, arms tightening as he pulls the other back to him.

It was a good question. Needed.

“If we… achieve what we hope to achieve, then the life expectancy should extend. With that, I believe children should stay just that. Children. Schools are a must, but there should be different ones. One for civilians and one for shinobi. Both should have their attendees enter no later than six.”

Madara remains silent but Hashirama can feel the dark hair brush against him at the other’s nod of agreement. 

“What about graduation?”

Hashirama contemplates. It was odd to think of a time where children wouldn’t have to be pushed to war, but not hard.

“Fifteen?” he offers.

Madara laughs lightly. “That’s middle age.”

“Not if we attain our goals.”

A hum accompanies them as the Uchiha scribbles something on the scroll. 

“So, fifteen and then, what?”

“They would be an adult.”

“That’s quite old to become an adult.”

“As I’ve stated—”

“I know, I know,” Madara sighs.

“We can’t do this looking at things from a pessimistic outlook. This village, it’s a dream—a goal.”  

Fingers card through his hair and he leans into the touch.

“I know,” Madara states again, voice firmer. “Okay.”

Hashirama hides a smile in those unruly strands, kissing softly.

“Now ranks.”

That was easy. Something he’s been contemplating for a while.

“Three of them. When a cadette graduates the academy, they become Genin. Then Chunin before finally, Jounin. Not everyone will make Jounin just like some will never make Chunin or even graduate. All is based on skills to assess and make certain they won’t be slaughtered on their missions.”

Madara writes quietly and Hashirama nuzzles.

“What do you think?” he finds himself asking after a moment.

“Me?”

“Of course. It’s not just my village.”

“If I had any complaints, I would have told you.”

And, he supposes, Madara was quite right. The Uchiha certainly was not one to bite his tongue on his opinions.

*   *   *

As they near a year, something drastic happens.

Hashirama becomes clan head.

It was sudden. 

Abrupt. 

One moment Butsuma is charging into battle, Hashriama quickly following, and the next, Butsuma is being slain with the sword not of an Uchiha, but an Hagoromo.

Too quickly for his eyes to keep up, it happens and Hashirama can do nothing to stop it. 

Even after the Senju retreat, he’s left in a state of shock.

He loved his father, yes, but… it was no lie he wasn’t the easiest to get along with. Hashirama knew that this day was inevitable, preparing long before now, but…

He’s head now. The Senju leader.

Pressure he never thought of falls on him at once, a boy not yet of eighteen. A month away and his father is gone, leaving him as the sole heir of responsibility.

Tobirama takes it worse than him, becoming reclusive and impulsive. It doesn’t last—Tobirama would never be so caught up in emotions, but the fact remains. His brother was hurting and there was nothing he could do about it. He can only give silent thanks that it wasn’t an Uchiha who dealt the killing blow.

His coronation is swift and inconsequential. Times of warfare can’t cater to such traditions and Hashirama didn’t care. Preferred it even, because something like that isn’t what he wants. There is a ceremony where the elders swear him in, looking at him with eyes of greed and envy, but he pays it no mind. They will not control him as they wish, too, something they will quickly learn.

Tobirama congratulates him but it feels bitter and they both know it.

Now, as he resides alone in his tent, a day’s travel from the Senju compound, he finally lets himself think.

His father was gone. He wasn’t coming back. 

The man who was cold and callous at the end flashes through his mind, but also does the man who was once warm and loving. 

“Daddy!”

A soft smile, dark hair falling over shoulders before he’s hastily picked up into big, strong arms. Comforting arms. In them, he feels safe. At home.

“How’s my little Hashi? Taking care of your brothers?”

He swallows around a knot.

It was inevitable. He knew that. Was counting on it, really. Had to for his dream, but still…

Something wet falls into his lap, dampening the cloth of his ceremonial robes and then another. Three more before he realizes they’re coming from him. Harshly, he wipes his face, scowling. 

Emotions have always come so freely with him. So easily, but now wasn’t the time nor would it ever be.

Despite his resolve, his body doesn’t listen and the tears keep flowing, so he allows himself a night. Just one to let it go. Tomorrow, he will leave this tent as the Senju leader without a second glance back. He will go forth, but for now…

He lets himself mourn a father.

*   *   *

Madara knows.

He can tell from a simple glance of a face between reluctant sympathy and relief. He can’t say he completely understands, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Of course the boy would know. Word spreads fast as is, but a death that important? Not even the driest of wild fires could beat the gossip.

They’re quiet and Madara, surprisingly, makes no scathing remarks. Instead, the Uchiha crawls into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls Hashirama to his own.

Finger card his hair almost soothingly.

“You know…” Madara starts and Hashirama wraps his arms around the other, clutching him to his chest. “I cannot say many things about the Senju head. I loathed him, but… it’s okay to mourn a father.”

And thus, for a second time, one more than his promise, he lets go.

The Uchiha shocks him. It was something so utterly unexpected that he can’t help but follow through with Madara’s silent demand.

“It’s okay,” the raven states.

Hashirama caves. He doesn’t sob, but his tears flow once more for the last time.

*   *   *

“So… you’re the leader now.”

Hashirama nods, refusing to come up for air and leave the Uchiha’s neck.

“Now it’s… my turn.”

He says nothing, breathing slowly.

“I wonder… will I mourn as you?”

He tightens his grip and Madara places a soft kiss to his temple.

They stay like that for the rest of the night. Together and silent.

*   *   *

He wishes he could say that taking over leadership duties is different. Harsh or unexpected, but they’re really not. He’s been groomed for it since he could walk. He and Tobirama both were. It’s always a question of who will make it back from battle—Butsuma, Hashirama, Tobirama—and the clan will need to continue. Leading is something he’s been doing from the sidelines this entire time. It makes no difference now.

Change is slow. He stops taking missions that he knows will end in bloodshed and tries to dissuade the Senju way of thinking. Attempts to implant thoughts of peace as possibility rather than impracticability. 

The clan doesn’t take to it, of course. He expected nothing else, but the seed was now sown. All he needed to do was water it.

Some elders loath him. They make scathing remarks and talk down to him, unready for his stonewalling responses.

Other elders adore him. A few particular ones—Kaori and Arata—agree with his way of thinking, verbally echoing their approval of his words. They’ll make the ceasefire easier in the future, he knows.

The others are neutral but he believes he could sway them eventually.

Tobirama makes his disapproval known, stating that they can’t trust the Uchiha no matter what but never in front of an audience. Only within the quietness of Hashirama’s quarters do these discussions spark and then, it always ends with Tobirama leaving in frustration due to his brother’s stubborn streak.

Who knew Hashriama had that?

The only down fall is that his meetings with Madara become even more sparse. There are more eyes on him now. More expectations and if there were to be an attack, he would be at the forefront, expected to protect the clan and their territory.

He loathes it, but… when thinking of the future, it makes everything worth it. 

A place where he wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore. 

A place where both Senju and Uchiha place down their weapons, building a village—a family instead.

His jaw clenches as he stares at the scroll in front of him. The yellow light of the candles flickers as voices outside muffle through the wood of the walls.

It will be reality.

*   *   *

Three months.

It has been three months since he’s seen Madara and he’s… very much in longing. 

After his first missed session, he left a note. Thankfully, Madara wasn’t too angry and left one of his own. They’ve been corresponding ever since via the cave and Hashirama has finally found the time to sneak away.

His birthday has long passed, bringing with it the harsh winter and Madara’s own instead. Something he certainly didn’t want to miss.

Black eyes widen in surprise at his appearance and he can’t help the smile that stretches across his face. His heart races in giddy excitement as he takes in the other boy.

His hair was longer, falling into his face. Briefly, he mourns the look of both the Uchiha’s eyes before he brushes it away as Madara barrels into his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes, burying his face into the unruly mop.

Madara squeezes him tight, a silent betrayal of his own emotions before he pulls back and suddenly, Hashirama is being kissed. 

Desire laces through him, fast and hot. It has been some time since he’s seen the boy, even more so for… this.

He allows himself to be pulled back deeper in the cave and Madara only pulls away long enough to fall to their pile of furs. Hands on his waist guide him down hastily and his throat swells with emotion that Madara’s actions bring.

“Madara—”

“Hush,” the Uchiha commands, lying back and pulling Hashirama atop him. “Later.”

He allows himself to be guided. Allows his mouth to be taken again as Madara’s hands scope his waist.

Need consumes him, more than he’s ever felt before as he hastily unties the strings of Madara’s armor.

The other does the same to him and before they know it, they’re both exposing pale skin. 

Cold fingers brush his chest and he hisses, pulling back. 

Madara pants under him, face flushed and eyes wild. He hesitates. This was quickly delving into unknown territory. Something they’ve never done before, and he was uncertain about what exactly was the end game.

“What—” Madara’s nails bite into the muscle of his back and his breath stutters as the pull raises up to meet him, groins aligning. Hard, hot lengths slide against one another, bare in their assault and his brain momentarily blanks from the feeling.

“It’s—I…” Frustration crosses the Uchiha’s features as the words seem to fail him. 

Hands push him back and he goes, sitting on his knees as Madara twists and grabs for his pile of clothes. His hand returns with something small and round. A vial, he realizes when the boy glares crimson at him.

“Here.” 

The clay bottle is shoved into his chest rather harshly.

He stares, confused, as he uncorks it.

Oil.  

It takes his slow brain a few more seconds to catch up and when it does, his face heats in an unaccustomed flush. He was never one for embarrassment, facing anything head on, but this…

“You—”

Madara glares and snaps, “Shut up.”  

“Are you certain?”

Red eyes flick away and refuse to return. Crimson spreads from his neck to his chest, brushing against his nipples ever so subtly. It certainly looked like the boy approved. Still.

“Madara.”

The Uchiha sighs, chest rising and falling with his exhale. Finally, he looks up. Embarrassment is prevalent but so is something else. Determination. He leans up, sliding a hand around Hashirama’s neck and pulling the boy down.

Hashirama allows himself to be guided back atop Madara’s body, accepting the kiss that is pressed his way. It’s far more chaste than the ones they’ve shared before. Filled with emotions that they have yet to be named or spoken.

The Sharingan stare up at him as Madara pulls back, his hair falling into a curtain of brown around them. Fingers press against his cheeks, soft and tender.

“I’m certain.”

And Hashirama is convinced. He nods once, fumbling with the bottle and spreading its contents across his fingers. It’s not like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing—he understands theory, but acting out his fantasies. That will be a new experience. 

It’s not that he’s ignorant—he’s a medic nin. Of course he understands, but doing it in person is different than reading it from a scroll or a book.

The haste from earlier is forgotten but not the desire as his hand disappears between them.

Madara tenses and he takes the other in a slow kiss to dissuade his overthinking mind. His fingers only trail against the soft skin of Madara’s inner thigh when the boy fully relaxes, arms wrapping around his neck as their tongues slide together leisurely. 

He does good distracting the other, his free hand lazily taking the boy in hand and stroking while his other prods the entrance. A finger slides inside and Madara’s brow furrows at the intrusion but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, hands tighten on the nape of Hashirama’s neck before he’s being kissed with a fiercer passion. 

He thinks he does a good job stretching the other, taking his time and adding digits when Madara whispers for him to do it. When he gets up to three, the dark-haired boy pulls away to look up at him.

“I’m okay.”

The rebuttal is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back. It was, after all, Madara’s own body, not his. He figures the boy would know it most and Madara wasn’t known to make any rash decisions like him. He trusts the Uchiha.

He finds the forgotten vial and Madara watches with a keen eye as he lathers himself sticky. Briefly, the Sharingan narrows as he wraps a hand around himself and strokes, coating himself completely, and he pauses.

“Okay?”

Ruby eyes flick back up and harden. Madara nods.

Hashirama briefly thinks of pressing it further but if the slow tensing of the boy’s shoulders was anything to go by, it would only set him off, so he lets it go. He lines himself up instead, feeling the tense ring of muscle pressed against his tip and freezes.

Okay, so they were really doing this.

Okay.

Okay.  

He’s not nervous. Psh, of course not. He’s Senju Hashirama. He’s seen war since he was old enough to hold a weapon. Sex does not scare him.

A hand clasps his cheek and he looks up to find a curious gaze.

“Are you okay?”

He flushes again and shifts on his knees, pressing forward slightly.

“Of course,” he mutters and Madara’s smug smirk derails as his eyes widen, breath catching in his throat.

He pauses and Madara’s brow furrows. He’s not… in yet, but just a little more pressure and he would be. 

“Do it,” is a voice, strong in determination.

Hashirama complies. 

Tentatively, he forces himself inside, biting his lip harshly when the head slides in. He has to stop himself from falling all the way in, freezing to give Madara time to adjust.

Strong hands squeeze his shoulders and the furrow between Madara’s brow deepens. He’s tense beneath Hashirama’s touch so the Senju does his best to soothe, running his hands down Madara’s waist and kissing his face softly.

Slowly, it works and Madara relaxes under him.

“Okay,” is the very quiet, very shaky reply and it almost makes Hashirama pull out and stop right there, but the death grip on his shoulders pulls him in.

Their thighs press together as he pushes forward, squeezing himself inside. He can’t help but freeze halfway.

It was just so… tight.  

And warm.

And scorching.

And intimate.  

Madara’s breath puffs against his cheeks as the boy exhales, hips tilting experimentally and causing Hashirama slides further inside. He does it again and another few centimeters. And again, and again—

They come flush and Hashirama swallows thickly, eyes falling shut at the sensation. It was— He could never even perceive—  

Madara squirms under him, tentatively getting used to the foreign sensation and Hashirama does his absolute best to stay still and let the boy adjust. He couldn’t perceive what it feels like, having something so foreign inside him on top of such intimate feelings that surely must be swirling within him.

His heart was beating so fast, he was certain Madara could hear it in the silence of their cave and he thinks that, perhaps, he could hear the other’s as well.

“You’re… inside me,” the Uchiha eventually mutters as his eyes look between their bodies.

Hashirama’s already flushed face deepens as his breath stutters. Something akin to pure want laces through him and he can’t help the swivel his hips give. 

Madara’s breath catches as he tightens around the length inside him and Hashirama’s head falls, low croon bubbling in his throat.

It felt amazing.  

Is this what sex was like? Would it feel like this with anyone? Or was it because he was with Madara?  

“Do that again,” the Uchiha demands and Hashiarama listens. He pulls out slightly, barely before pushing back in, punching a breath of air from the other.

Legs fall open, allowing him better access as he repeats the action, faster this time and he’s utterly enraptured at the growing dust of red across the other’s body. 

Madara avoids his gaze as he tentatively observes the other’s reactions, conforming his actions based on the results. 

He pulls out, almost all the way, before sliding back in and—Madara likes it.

A moan leaves the boy’s throat, soft but clear as his head falls back against the furs, exposing his pale throat.

Hashirama is enraptured.

A hand cups his ribs, holding as he repeats and repeats. The steady cadence of Madara’s voice rising slowly with his ministrations does nothing to help him stave off his own upcoming pleasure.

He wasn’t going to last, but he had to. For Madara.

He can’t resist the urge to dip down and kiss the proffered throat, tongue darting out a laving caress. Teeth sink in and Madara’s hand is suddenly in his hair, squeezing the roots as a louder keen leaves his lips.

“Hash— Hashirama,” the boy beneath him pants, “Don’t—don’t stop.”

Hashirama would never dream of doing so. He kisses the skin irritated by his mouth as he shifts his knees on the soft fur. He grasps the boy’s hips with one hand while he steadies himself with his other before he lets go. 

Panting breaths and choked moan accompany his newfound actions and he can’t resist chasing the blind pleasure he’s feeling no more. 

Madara claws at him. His back, his shoulders, chest. Everything the Uchiha touches comes alight with the new sensations of pleasure and pain. Heat builds between them and inside them as the crescendo of their dance rushes them.

He can’t resist opening his eyes from where they’ve fallen shut to watch as Madara struggles beneath him. Watch as the Uchiha’s lithe body twists and shifts. The way he pushes up against Hashirama and the way Hashirama pushes him back.

To think, Uchiha Madara, beneath him, falling into a mindless pleasure—he never, ever perceived. Never dreamt but now that it’s here, it will never leave. Nothing will ever compare. He is a ruined man. 

Madara truly was otherworldly. Ethereal in his appearance and personality. Hashirama was smitten.  

That unnamed emotion swells as Madara’s red eyes flicker open and he can’t resist reaching out, hand leaving the other’s hip to cup his cheek.

Whatever’s on his face must be clear because Madara’s eyes widen. The boy gasps and Hashirama can feel the internal clench around his length.

Briefly, he’s chaste. He thinks he knows what the other is seeing, but he can do nothing to stop it. He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

His hips stutter as he watches Madara’s face shift between emotions far too fast for him to discern before it finally lands on something blank. He stops then, freezing as his length aches and his body screams for more.

“Madara—”

The boy says nothing, grasping his chin in hand and pulling him down. Not into a kiss, into something else. Something he’s never experienced before.

“Don’t stop,” the boy mutters as his Sharingan swirls.

Hashirama’s useless to deny, starting their pace again as Madara’s breath rushes against his lips. He wants to lean down, to kiss the other, but a sudden resolve in the other’s gaze makes him quell it.

“Hashirama,” the Uchiha states, his tomoe still swirling.  He suddenly seems uncertain. “Can I—?”

“Anything,” is his instantaneous answer. He would let Madara do anything.

Red eyes soften.

The Sharingan swirl.

And—

Emotion he’s never felt before overcomes him. It’s—It’s so much stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before. It makes his breath freeze and his actions stop. He’s in stasis as he processes what he’s feeling. 

Utterly overwhelming. 

His head is cloudy and he remember how to breathe. It captivates him so wholly that everything else disappears. 

He does know this emotion, felt it moments ago really, but it’s—-

Sudden realization makes his eyes widen and jaw drop.

Madara looks sheepish and his gaze flicks away, suddenly stopping the overwhelming mess inside Hashirama.

Was that…  

Undoubtedly. 

Madara showed him something unheard of. 

Something special.

Something inconceivable. 

Briefly, he feels tears well in his eyes and Madara’s own widen in panic.

“What—”

He cuts the other off with a kiss. His hips tilt again, slowly this time. So much slower than before. No longer is he chasing that blind pleasure. Instead, he’s showing the other what he was previously shown.

Will it be as potent? 

No, Madara feels so, so much more than him, but… he hopes the other understands that Hashirama feels the same as much as he can.

Compliant, Madara relaxes into his actions. Returns the kiss just as softly and allows Hashirama to bring them to their completion slowly. 

He makes sure Madara finishes first, the boy’s body tensing beneath him as something warm hits his stomach. Plentiful and long lasting, he freezes when Madara’s hand on his pelvis stops him. The boy’s panting breath accompanies him and his brow furrows when he realizes Hashirama was still hard and throbbing inside him.

“You didn’t come?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. Brown hair falls over his shoulder and Madara reaches up, taking a strand between his fingers. 

A few more breaths before the Uchiha nods and arms wrap around his shoulders once more. 

Hashirama chases his own release—just a few more harsh thrusts that punch the quietest of noises from Madara’s throat until he’s stilling, release filling Madara deeper than anything else.

He loathes to pull out but knows he needs to, so he slowly does.

Dark brows furrow in discontent as he slips free, his seed falling out quickly after. He flushes at the sight, landing with a thump beside the other.

Madara curls into him, arms wrapping around him without another thought and he smiles to himself.

They say nothing, their bodies cooling with the chill of the cave. Soon, they would need to redress, but for now…

His thoughts swirl. New revelations of his own and Madara’s run through his mind and his throat swells.

Ever shifting, their relationship is estranging. Melting into something they can’t come back from—as if they could now.

He rethinks of Madara’s emotions that washed over him and his grip on the other tightens.

Madara shifts, nuzzling under his chin and he feels his own resurface. 

He was… utterly and irrevocibly… undeniably in love with the Uchiha.

Love.  

Panic ensues in him before he brushes it down.

He’s always loved Madara in one form or another. As a friend, as a kindred spirit.

And now as something more.

It would change nothing except make him yearn for their village with even more force. 

“I’m going to marry you.”

Madara goes deathly still next to him, but he doesn’t let the boy pull back when he tries. 

Silence engulfs them and the Uchiha says nothing.

Eventually, the tense body relaxes back and he feels a kiss placed to the hollow of his throat.

“Okay…”

There’re no threats. No demands and no complaints. Just simple acceptance that has him blinking in shock.

He would have thought Madara to fight back. To get angry and stubborn as he always is. He was prepared to beg day in and day out until their village was finally built until the boy accepted, but…

He smiles, wide and excited. Nothing else is spoken between them and he lets his good, heavy emotions swell.

Eventually, the cold begins to bite and they finally pull away. 

Hashirama can’t keep his hands off the other as they dress. His lips trail a path of light kisses across a pale shoulder as Madara tucks his arms in his tanzen before sliding the cloth up. He moves ebony hair out of the way to kiss Madara’s neck instead when his access is cut off and the boy sighs, tilting to allow further accommodation. 

He ties the obi hastily, sloppily, hands trailing down the boy to pull him flush against his front.

“If you don’t stop…” the Uchiha mutters, turning his head back and Hashirama can’t resist taking his lips again.

Fingers card through his hair, pulling him into a deeper kiss and he can’t resist clasping the boy’s still exposed thigh. He kneads the flesh softly, noting the way Madara’s breath hitches.

A soft moan leaves Madara’s mouth as Hashirama pulls away before he bites his lip to stifle it.

“We just got through—” is Madara’s incredulous, lust-filled voice that bites off as Hashirama grinds his quickly hardening erection into the boy’s lower back.

“Just once more,” he mutters, guiding the Uchiha forth.

Madara complies, falling to his hands in front of him. He takes in the sight, committing it to memory and cursing his lack of Sharingan as Madara looks back at him, eyes flickering between black and red.

He falls over the other, hand sliding up Madara’s leg and hiking the tanzen up around his waist. 

Subtly, legs spread further, pressing into him slightly and his stomach swoops with want.

“It’s okay, right?”

Madara says nothing, swallowing thickly and eyes falling shut as Hashirama guides himself forth. He presses in, the glide is much easier this time and he doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated. 

Need swells within him as Madara’s hair falls down his back in waves, arching slightly as he tumbles forth. His heart thunders as a feeling different than before overcomes him at the sight of the Uchiha Madara underneath him.

Amenable. 

Pliant.

Docile.  

His hands grip Madara’s hips harshly, turning the pale skin red as he pulls back and thrusts in harshly. A sharp, wet smack accompanies his actions along with a startled moan from the other and he can’t resist repeating the action.

Madara loves it. He squeezes so, so tight around Hashirama’s length and his back arches further as he presses himself deeper onto the Senju. He falls to his elbows and Hashirama takes great care to be precise in his movements.

He stares down, watching himself disappear inside his lover and reappear outside. Wet and glistening from his previous release, he throbs a deep red. His pelvis slaps roughly against Madara’s cheeks, pressing them forth and making them squirm and his arousal, hot and heavy, swells and swells.

It was different this time. This round was one of need. One of chasing pleasure blindly and proving to himself how much of a mess he can make the Uchiha Madara.

His knee slips. Just barely and on a thrust, and Madara moans. Different than the other times—louder and filled with much more need.

The Uchiha squeezes the pelt beneath his fingers so tightly his knuckles whiten and he presses himself further back.

“Do it,” he pants, tilting his head from where it’s buried to peek a single red eye back at Hashirama, “Do it again.”  

Hashirama’s eyes widen, stomach falling at the desperate, pleading look on the other’s face and all but falls over himself to comply. 

Madara’s next moan is just as loud. It echoes and had there been a patrol passing by, surely, they would be investigating but Hashirama’s beating heart and raving desire doesn’t let him linger on the thought for long. Instead, he’s angling his hips to press against whatever it was that was making Madara such a mess beneath him.

The Uchiha reaches his completion much faster this time. It takes maybe a few more thrusts before he’s tensing, hand reaching back to clasp Hashirama’s bare thigh as he convulses. 

The Senju pauses, breathing harshly as he feels the boy milk him, only pressing forward when Madara relaxes.

He thrusts harshly and Madara groans, shoulders flexing beneath the slipped tanzen as his hand presses to Hashirama’s pelvis again to stop his movements.

Lip between his teeth, Hashirama forces himself to be patient and wait. He feels his orgasm running from him, however. Disipating, and he pushes forth just a bit, chasing it. 

Madara mewls brokenly, “Fuck, Hashirama. Wait,” his hand pressing firmer against Hashirama’s abs in an attempt to stop him, but he’s so close—  

He gives three more thrusts before he’s following, release flowing inside for the second time that night.

Madara’s hand falls away finally and the boy relaxes completely.

He pulls himself free, biting his lip as he watches his seed flowing down Madara’s thighs this time and he feels another round stirring inside.

It was quite late, however, and he knew they couldn’t stay longer so he pulled the tanzen to cover the sight.

Weakly Madara pushes himself shakily to his hands, eyes glaring half-heartedly up at him.

“You’re a menace.”

Hashirama can only smile sheepishly, running a hand through his hair.

Red eyes track the movement, flickering down his body and back up before the boy blinks and they’re black again. 

The look alone was enough for Hashriama to have to quell the urge of pushing Madara back down—maybe pulling him to his lap instead.

Standing on shaky knees, Madara attempts to stand, but Hashirama quickly catches him when he falls.

Black eyes glare angry and slightly embarrassed. 

“I’m—”

“Wrecked,” Hashirama finishes, guiding the boy to a stand. 

You look that way too, Hashirama notes, eyeing the dark marks pressed to the boy’s throat, disappearing into his clothes. When did he do that?

He allows himself a few moments to take in Madara’s sight before his hand reaches out and heals the noticeable markings. 

Madara allows him, even if he looks a bit peeved by his actions, knowing it was for the better. 

When they’re finally presentable for pubic eye, they douse the fire and leave.

Hashirama’s hands remain on the boy in one way or another until the cold winter air nips at them.

“Madara,” he calls before the boy can finally turn away.

Curious black eyes look back at him and he can’t resist smiling, emotions shining in his eyes.

“I don’t know when I can return, but… I will.”

The Uchiha assesses him for a long and silent moment before he finally nods, turning away.

“Happy birthday,” he calls before the boy can vanish.

Madara stumbles and Hashirama stifles a smile as he Shushins into the trees.

*   *   *

Though their visits are far and in between, they are just as passionate as ever. Frantic in their needs, but not always. Sometimes, they’ll sit by the fire and speak of their future village. Other times, they’ll spar and work on shared jutsus as they did when they were children.

It’s a comfortable routine. 

Safe. 

Secure.

Maybe that’s why he’s not expecting Madara’s sudden vexation.

He’s only barely stepped foot inside the cave when his instincts flare to life, but it’s too late. The wall is hard against his back and the kunai at his throat, cold and deadly.

Black eyes stare up at him, shuttered of emotion and he swallows, throat jutting out against the metal, so close to his major artery. 

“Mada—”

The kunai presses closer and Hashirama tilts his head in accordance.

Madara’s jaw flexes. His nostrils flare and his eyes waver.

It seems whatever silent battle is over and the boy pushes harshly away from him, kunai returning to its holster. 

Hashirama watches with a wary eye as Madara paces in front of him, hands running through dark strands. Silence becomes them as the man in front of him comes to terms with… whatever that was—this is.  

Suddenly, Madara turns to him, face thunderous. 

“I am not a traitor,” he snarls and alarms sound in Hashirama’s mind.

“Of course,” he replies even as his brow twitches.

Madara’s fingers twitch, looking a moment from delving for the kunai again as his eyes flicker between red and black. The pacing starts again and the boy mutters under his breath.

Hashirama is immensely confused. 

They’re two months after their third year of congregations and nothing like this has ever erupted. Truthfully, it was a miracle they’ve made it this long and he loathes to see it go.

“Madara—”

A kunai embeds itself into the stone millimeters from his face but he doesn’t react. He wasn’t expecting it, but he knew Madara wouldn’t kill him.

Maim him? Definitely, but kill?

No…

He briefly recalls that emotion Madara let him feel once and he knows he won’t die by Madara’s hand. Off the battlefield, at least.

Red eyes stare and stare until finally, the man deflates. His hair falls forth as he squats, hands hiding his expression.

Hashirama is imminently concerned. 

He steps forward, hand sliding to Madara’s shoulder and his own tension eases when he’s not thrown off.

“My Love, what’s happened?” he whispers and Madara melts. He sits on the floor and Hashirama quickly follows him, bodies flush.

His heart drops when Madara looks over with a sheen in his eyes. Never. Not once has he seen Madara cry and he abhors the reason that could finally make him.

“I’m not a traitor,” the boy mutters again, shifting until his arms wrap around his knees.

Hashirama says nothing, merely watching as the man next to him steels himself.

“Remeber—” is Madara’s choked voice, echoing off stone, “Remember when you and your father went… hunting?”  

He tries not to tense, tries to keep his emotions inside, but his body doesn’t listen. He leans away slightly, giving Madara space as realization strikes him.

The Uchiha are making a move. Deadly, against the Senju and Madara was—

Madara was—  

“My father is becoming delirious,” the Uchiha states. He’s frozen, tense and looking a hair’s breadth from fleeing as he stares ahead. “He was—I swear to all the gods above if you use this against me, I will kill you myself—”

“I won’t,” he states even as his loyalties war within him. He was head now. It was different than when he warned Madara. He had responsibilities to his people—his clan. 

Still, he wouldn’t use this information for more than he should.

Slightly, Madara’s shoulders relax and his breathing comes easier.

“He was struck in battle weeks ago and we didn’t know if he would make it or not.”

The Uchiha stretches, finally forcing his legs out.

“He did, obviously, but… he’s becoming mad. Making rash decisions, worse than you could ever think of, and I’ve kept up with everything else. He hadn’t targeted anything else, but…” Black eyes flick to him and he tenses at the seriousness there. “You're his new fascination and I don’t foresee it fading.”

His brow furrows as Madara’s words wash over him. Uchiha Tajima was targeting him?

Truthfully, the battles with the Uchiha have been less frequent since he took over. He’s made sure to avoid them whenever possible and when he can’t, he does his best to end it swiftly. Madara is the one he always sought out, but his sword has crossed Tajima’s a time or two.

Nothing was ever out of the ordinary. He never struck to kill, never behaved maliciously, so why…

“He thinks you’re evil incarnate,” Madara continues, “I don’t—I don’t know how he got it in his head, but that’s what you are in his eyes. Someone trying to destroy the Uchiha, sent from the underworld itself.”

A beat of silence passes through them and Hashirama meddles in his confusion.

“I don’t…” Madara takes a breath. “We are going hunting now. Sometime soon and this—this buck we’re after, he will be the center of it all. He can’t—I don’t want it to die—”  

He rests a hand on Madara’s shoulder once more and the boy quiets. All it takes from him is a simple swipe of his thumb across a rosy cheek before Madara is burying himself in his embrace.

“You can’t die,” Madara mumbles. “Please don’t die.”  

Hashirama feels his own emotions swell. He never expected Madara to beg for his life. Never a Senju’s. 

Realization strikes him then of how far they’ve truly come. How deep they’re in for if Uchiha Madara is betraying his clan, then… the hold Hashirama has over him is inconceivable. Never before did he realize the severity of their situation. Never truly comprehended what it would be like to make Madara fall in love with him and now that he has—

He can’t betray that trust. 

He can’t.  

So he won’t die. 

He’ll come back and he’ll—

“Shh,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose along side Madara’s. “I won’t die. I’ll come back to you.”

The Uchiha shudders under his words, leaning further into him and they share a kiss. Bittersweet in its initiation and amorous in its ending.

They spend the rest of their shared time like that, holding one another. When it comes time to leave, he has to force Madara’s hand from his body even as it aches to do so. The Uchiha manages to summon enough courage to turn his back and likewise Hashirama turns his own. 

Together they turn back to their clans and away from one another.

*   *   *

Hashirama takes his time in planning. He’s quite meticulous—something unheard of for him. He almost brings Tobirama into the know because his brother’s brain was leagues above his own, but he knows he can’t. His brother would want to know where he received the information and why it should be trusted. He’d set up parameters, of course, but then he would become suspicious and Hashirama wasn’t ready to let go of Madara quite yet, so he quelled his tongue.

He also focuses more than ever on his Sage arts. He was always on the cusp before, teetering the line but he never truly felt the need to fall into it. If he did, then he would be expected to use it against Madara and he—he couldn’t do that, so he ignored it.

Now, however, he embraces it. Finally master’s Nature and her gift of chakra.

It comes to him with relative ease—natural just like the energy and where he would normally be excited to show it off… If Madara found out, he would force Hashirama to use it despite not being properly equipped to combat it.

Only for defense, he thinks, watching a tree sprout with his emotions alone. It would be harder to hide what he’s feeling now. Flowers blossom when he’s happy and the earth dies when he’s sad.

Who knew Sage Mode could be so alluding?

It’s New Year's when the Uchiha’s attack. During the darkest part of night, they invade and the alerts sound. Much like his father’s idea, they attempt to seize the Senju compound. 

Hashirama is on the forefront because he is a leader. He spots Madara almost immediately, standing behind his father with a pale expression. Uchiha Izuna flakes his other side, also looking a bit off-kilter, but their swords are still raised high in preparation for battle.

“There he is! Take the Senju Demon’s head!” is Tajima’s resounding yell.

The Uchiha army resounds, following their leader’s words.

“Anija—”

“Tobirama,” he cuts his brother off. “You are to head the retreat. Make sure there are no more deaths than necessary.”

He can feel the blood red gaze of Tobirama’s incredulous look but pays it no mind.

“Anija—!”

“Now, Tobi! That’s an order!”

His brother takes a step back, hesitating before he Shushins into the darkness. 

It was okay. They had an escape plan in place. It took some time to concoct and some subtly pestering of his brother before he came up with it, but it was his and it would work. It had to. There would be no Senju blood spilled tonight other than his own and that was only if the Uchiha could get the jump on him. He only had to hold them off until his brother gave the single. Then, he could flee.

He wouldn’t let the Uchiha kill his clan.

Tajima looks unperturbed as the Senju forces fall back, leaving only Hashirama as the warrior. 

Madara looks murderous, eyes promising retribution after this.

He forces himself to look away from his lover. Banishes the urge to reassure with his eyes because he can’t keep his emotions clear.

Instead, he pulls his sword from its scabbard and looks on fearlessly. 

If a bead of sweat dribbles down his temple, the enemy is too far to see.

If his pulse thumps harshly, the enemy is too far away to hear.

He can do this.

He can.  

“You’re going to face us alone, Senju?” Tajima yells. Madara was right. The look in his eyes if a hint too crazed to be normal.

“If you cross into my territory, I cannot be responsible for defending myself.”

Tajima seethes. He gives the order and the Uchiha charge. A mass far bigger than he’s ever experienced before alone swarms him and he hastily avoids eye contact.

This was going to be rough.

This was going to be harsh.

He was going to have to fight Madara without trying to kill him all the while slaughtering his family in the process.

That is the world in which they live.

His eyes flick up the moment he feels the first intruder cross the invisible border he’s mapped out and he feels his forehead burn to life. The markings of Nature are quite prominent. Beautiful. He feels the power scourge in him as wood spikes from the ground.

The Uchiha are unprepared for his vast improvement of Mokuton and he uses the surprise to get the most of them.

Tajima howls in anger as his clan members are slaughtered ruthlessly and Hashirama refuses to look in Madara’s direction at all.

It’s an utter blood bath and he feels his chakra reserves draining quickly. Should he fall too far into it, he’d become wood itself and he can’t allow that. 

Tajima is the first to make it to him, their swords connecting. He refuses to look into the man’s eyes, knowing it’s an immediate loss with the state he is currently in and it impedes him greatly.

“You monster,” the Uchiha seethes. “You shall fall just like your father and with that, the Senju will be of no threat any longer!”

His jaw clenches, swinging his sword defensively as Tajima pushes and pushes. 

Hands move too quickly for his regular eyes to keep up with and he realizes just in time to jump away from the impending fireball blasting away. He creates a wooden wall to take the damage he can’t dodge, and he can visibly see his chakra depleting with the way the wood around him loses some of its color.

Izuna is suddenly at his back and momentary panic takes him. This was an Uchiha who he’s never truly fought. Tobirama was always there to take the attention off him and he briefly curses himself for his misstep. 

No Uchiha should go ignored.

He uses Kawarimi quickly and Izuna slices a log instead of Hashirama.

He lands a few meters away, panting with his exertion. He takes a step and stumbles slightly before quickly righting himself.

He cannot fall here.

“Only a demon is able to control the power of nature herself,” Tajima yells. 

Many Uchiha surround him after that and it takes all of his effort from falling to one of their blades. Wood rushes, blood gushes and he dodges. 

Dodges, dodges, dodges.  

He refuses to take more life than he absolutely must.

The Uchiha are relentless.

Something catches his gaze and he glances over to see a wall of fire heading directly toward him. Blurry it was and he dodges, staggering. More rush him, endless in their masses.

I’ve overdone it.  

Still, his hands clap together before landing on the ground. More trees erupt, springing to life and taking the ones of the Uchiha charging him in the process.

So much blood.  

Everywhere he looked, it was red.

What has he done?

Izuna is back, faster than ever and he uses all his energy to jump out of the way. He’s too dizzy to see his destination.

He lands at Madara’s feet. 

Briefly, he relaxes before he realizes this is battle and not even Madara was safe.

“Madara!” Tajima’s voice booms from across the field. “Kill him!”

Madara’s sword clanks as he grasps it while the boy seethes under his breath, “Move you fool!”  

It takes everything in Hashirama to listen. The last vestiges of chakra leave him as he Shushins away and he briefly curses himself for not practicing longer.

His Sage Mode dissipates and he’s left panting in the center of the battlefield.

Fuck.  

Only a handful of Uchiha are left, though. They all rush over, armor clanking and eyes blazing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

He promised Madara he wasn’t going to die here. He can’t die. Madara would never forgive him. 

Tajima is over and he barely manages to wrap his fingers around his sword before the Uchiha is slinging down on him. 

A shot echoes around the field a moment before the brightest yellow fireworks light up the night sky and Hashirama sags with relief.

Everyone was safe. 

He can flee.

Thank fuck.  

He uses the last of his energy to meet Tajima again, throwing the man to the ground a moment before sprinting off.

Like a coward.  

But at least cowards live.

Madara sags in relief as he passes him. Their eyes connect briefly and there’s utter thankfulness in the gaze that makes his resolve harden. 

“Coward!” Tajima howls, jumping to his feet. “Stop him!”

Many Uchiha try to and many fail. He kills no more as he slides past. His speed was nothing like his brother’s but it was quite—

Izuna Shunshins in front of him and he startles. He can’t stop and together they clash and roll.

“No—!” is the last thing he hears before a blade is piercing his chest.

His heart is racing, pumping vainly.

Izuna’s eyes are wide above him, red just like Madara’s, and—

Surprised?  

The Uchiha quickly jumps back, taking with him his sword, and it leaves Hashirama with a sickening shink.  

He gasps, rolling onto his stomach as blood pools in his hands. He tries to heal himself, but he knows that if he uses any more chakra, he will undoubtedly die.

“Do it! Kill him, Izuna!” Tajima bellows.

Footsteps sound and Hashirama clenches his jaw.

He was going to die.

Fuck.  

He thought he was free. 

He should have been free.

I should’ve paid more attention to you, Izuna.  

Madara was going to kill him.

He senses Izuna hesitate behind him, but one more crowing yell from his father has his sword lifting. 

Hashirama watches the silhouette casted over him. The sword, much longer than he remembers it ever being, rises and rises.

He thinks of things. His regrets and his dreams. Mostly of Madara, however. He hoped his lover would heal after this. Would love after this. It was no secret that he would grieve. He can only hope that Tobirama doesn’t make things worse. Hope that Madara seeks the peace he wants and pray that his brother listens.

The shadow’s sword drops and his eyes close.

Clank!  

“Madara! You—”

Hashirama’s breath gets stuck in his throat and his eyes open wide.

He did not—

But he did.

He manages to push himself to his knees and struggles around to find a very familiar, very panicked back facing him.

Izuna’s face is pale—whiter than any Uchiha Hashirama’s ever seen and the boy’s eyes widen in panic at whatever he sees.

“Aniki, you—”

“Madara!!!” is Tajima’s vicious yell.

“You can’t—You can’t kill him,” Madara stutters, voice breathless and frightened. “I just—I—he’s—”

“You are a fool,” Hashirama seethes and Madara turns to him then. He freezes, breath stuttering in his chest when he spots the—

Madara’s Sharingan is different. No longer is there the three tomoe he’s become quite intimate with, instead, they bleed together like fangs, venomous and deadly. His eyes are bleeding, too. Crying tears of blood.

Panic and heartbreak are the only things Hashirama can make out in that red gaze and his stomach drops.

He never wanted this. Never wanted to make Madara choose. Ever.  

“Madara—”

“You can’t—you can’t die,” the Uchiha seethes. He looks to be at war with himself. Over his loyalty to his clan and Hashirama.

“Neither can you,” he snarls under his breath. Tajima was quickly approaching and they needed to come up with an excuse. “Tell them I controlled you.”

Dark brows furrow. “What? No—”

“Now!” 

He sags to the ground, energy leaving him. He could fight no longer.

Izuna, still in front of them, stares on with wide eyes and a dropped jaw but Hashirama pays it no mind.

There’s a sudden flash of white and Tobirama is there by his side. His entrance makes Izuna retreat and Hashirama uses everything in himself to push Madara away. The Uchiha falls and Tobirama ignores him in favor of grabbing his brother.

“Anija, you truly are an idiot.”

Hashirama laughs humorlessly.

As Tobirama retreats, he can see Tajima howl in anger. He slaps Madara hard enough that the man falls to the ground and Hashirama struggles.

“Tobi—”

“Hush,” his brother demands. “You cannot fight.”

But he can see and he sees how Tajima raises another hand toward his lover and Madara does nothing to stop it.

Nothing.

A sinking fear eats him whole. 

Tajima wouldn’t kill Madara… would he?

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

He struggles in Tobirama’s hold, making his brother fumble with him.

“Anjia—!”

“Let.” He pushes against a chest plate. “Me.” His head spins from blood lost. “Go.”  

Darkness encases his vision and he silently curses how weak he is.

Never again will something like this happen. 

Never.

“Madara…” he mutters, consciousness fading. “Please… Don’t die…”  

*   *   *

When he awakens next, he wishes he did not.

His body aches, immediate pain when he attempts to move, and his chest burns.  

Tobirama is by his side instantly, face free of his head gear and white hair reflecting the sunlight shining through the window.

“Anija, don’t move. You’ll disrupt your bandages.”

“What—” Memories come back to him one by one and he sits without a second thought, pain forgotten. “Madara!” 

Tobirama’s gaze scrutinizes him silently, but he pays it no mind as his thoughts shift.

“The clan, are they okay?”

Another brief silence before, “The clan is fine. We made it successfully to the designated safe area. Everyone is present and accounted for.”

He sags with relief even as the one thing he wants to know eats him.

Is Madara alive?  

He will have no way of knowing. None. Not until another battle or word spreads.

And he sure hopes that he doesn’t hear word of his lover’s death through rumors.  

He swallows thickly.

“Your… friendship with Uchiha Madara is… still so strong, Anija?”

Tobirama’s question brings him back and he looks over curiously. 

Expressionless red eyes stare back and he tries his hardest to assess the look but he can’t make out what it is.

“What are you talking about?” he finally settles on.

Red eyes never waver.

“Madara, he…”

“He saved you,” Tobirama supplies. His eyes are hard now. “An Uchiha.”

He winces.

Fuck. Tobi saw that? What else did he see?  

“I don’t—”

“Do not lie to me.”

He bites his tongue.

“You’ve been meeting with him. For years.”

His stomach sinks so deep it feels as if it falls from his body. He looks at Tobirama with wide eyes. 

How did his brother know?

How long has he known?

Why has he never said anything?

“I’m not—we’re—what?”

“You’ve been meeting with him for years. In that cave,” Tobirama supplies quietly. 

Certainly. 

Hashirama can’t refute.

“You—You knew?”  

Uneasiness bleeds into Tobirama’s gaze as he shifts from his seiza to something less formal.

“Not until recently.”

“How—”

“Unimportant,” his brother cuts off. “The fact remains that Uchiha Madara traded his life for yours.”

The ground falls out from beneath him. 

“He’s—” His throat closes and nothing else passes through it.

“Dead? Unknown, but… Tajima is not happy. They’re trying to contain it, but fact that Madara defended you has spread. The clan is confused and the Uchiha even more so.”

He runs a shaky hand through his hair.

“Fuck,” he breathes. What was he going to do?

Tobirama shows no signs of sympathy as he stands. 

“We should construe a lie. Something that will excuse Madara’s actions while defending yours.”

Silently, his eyes flick upward toward his brother.

“The Uchiha cannot be trusted. Despite whatever… infatuation you’ve found within Uchiha Madara’s being, the fact remains. They tried to ambush us. They came to our home. They cannot—”

“We did the same thing,” he snarls.

Tobirama’s turns to him in surprise, unexpected of his anger.

“The only difference is we backed off. The Uchiha aren’t to blame for Tajima’s decision.”

His brother stares at him silently for a long moment before he turns away.

“I mean it—!”

“Your word is law, Anija. We’ll speak further when you are healed.” 

The shoji slides shut with a soft clank and he’s left alone.

Information floods his mind as it races, looking for a plan. 

He can’t let Madara die.

He won’t.  

*   *   *

He heals and Madara stays gone. 

Disappeared. 

Unseen.

Not even in battles outside of the Senju one are there whispers of the strongest Uchiha and Hashirama…

Hashirama mourns.

Madara can’t be dead. He can’t be. Hashirama would have felt it. 

Would have known. 

So he waits.

He can’t exactly storm the Uchiha compound. A war would erupt, worse than anything they’ve ever seen. Innocent lives would be lost and children slain.

He can’t.  

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits.  

Until—

Madara returns to the battlefield one long and dreadful year later but it’s not the man he knows, the man he loves.

Madara is different.

Madara is blind.

Chapter Text

You drew up some good faith treaties.

I drew curtains closed,

Drank my poison all alone.

You said I have to trust more freely...

—The Great War, Taylor Swift

He was in utter and total Hell.

Silence encases him with only the steady beat of his heart as accompaniment. 

Thump, thump, thump.  

How long has it been?

How long will it be before he is allowed to leave?

His fingers trail across his cheek, feeling their cool texture before tracing up against the bone directly under his eye socket.

Empty.

Both of them.

His father had been so angry.

How dare you of all people develop our most sacred Sharingan for the enemy!  

He thought for certain that Hashirama was dead. Killed by his little brother, unmoving after he fell to the ground, and it hurt. An agony worse than any he’s ever experienced before because Hashirama couldn’t be dead.  

But then the Senju did move. Just barely as Izuna was raising to strike again and—

It was instinctual. Not a thought running through his mind as his body was suddenly across the battlefield, deflecting the blow his brother was pressing down against one of his most precious people. 

Izuna had looked so startled, but all he felt was the crippling pain in his eyes. He just—He couldn’t let Izuna kill Hashirama. He couldn’t.  

Thankfully, Hashirama’s younger brother was there in seconds, collecting the elder Senju and disappearing into the forest.

Stupid.

It was all stupid.

The plan to raid the Senju.

Madara’s distraught loyalties.

Hashirama’s own self-sacrifice. He wasn’t supposed to die. That’s what Madara was promised, yet he almost did.

Anger resonates in him, deep and heavy. When he was free, he would kill the boy for giving him so much grief. 

That was, if Hashirama even managed to live. 

No, he did, he snaps at himself. He had to. The Senju were known for their healing capabilities and surely the head would receive the best of it. 

Breathing comes easier. 

Silence trickles by and he feels restless. 

His father thought it appropriate to isolate him after taking his eyes, saying he needed to be punished for his transgressions. Tajima didn’t even know what he did wrong, simply believing that Madara’s eyes were the work of evil and were cursed. Said that the Senju did something to him that needed to be fixed.

His hands clench, bunching the fabric of his yukata beneath it in his anger. Empty sockets ache with memories.

Tajima was never so mad before. Never that crazed.

He took my eyes.

My. Eyes.  

Tajima’s actions were a violation of the Uchiha code. Of laws that predated even the great ancestors. The Sharingan was supposed to be savored. Worshipped for not everyone would unlock them and the Mangekyou even more so. 

Until now, it was merely nothing more than a myth. A Fairy tale told to children to show the pride of the Uchiha. A possibility yet not.

Except Madara achieved it only to have them ripped away.

He prays that his father did not destroy them. Didn’t throw them away in a fit of madness. 

Fury seethes within him and he quells it just as fast. 

The future is unknown and he’s wary of that. He knows things will only deteriorate, worse than this isolation he’s been thrown into and he must prepare himself.

Izuna…  

Was his brother looking for him? Concerned or even aware? 

He hoped that whenever this is over, Izuna would not suffer. No matter the results of a future yet to come, Izuna deserved to live and be happy. Just like H—

Clack.  

Madara tenses as fusuma doors slide open and a chakra signature makes itself prevalent. He hates remaining in utter darkness but he won’t let that weaken him. He is Madara Uchiha. Who needs sight when he has himself?

He can tell by familiarity that it’s his father and he calmly keeps his face blank even as emotions war inside him.

“You’re looking better.”

His jaw aches with the effort to keep it shut. Attacking now is not an option. His newfound lack of sight will handicap him, not quite used to his senses or working without one. He would need to bide his time. Bid his strength and then—

The patriarchal position will fall to his hands due to his own will. Tajima will not live for what he’s done. The transgressions will not be overlooked.

“The Senju have gone into hiding. Your interference has led to their escape.”

Good, he thinks but never speaks. 

“Your punishment will be dealt with momentarily. For now, we must discuss the matter of your Mangekyou.”

“You took them from me. What is there to discuss,” he hisses, leaning forth with his own anger.

Tajima remains silent for a moment and he can feel his father’s stare.

“The Mangekyou can only occur when faced with immense loss. Yours appeared due to the Senju Demon. We must discuss why this occurred. I thought you were long over your little… striffle with that man.”

Madara says nothing. He will give nothing away.

“However, Izuna tells me it was not because of that but instead, the Senju was striking at him.”

The breath gets stuck in his throat. His mind races with memories. 

No, it was very clear to his brother what he did. Undeniable. He was defending Hashirama from Izuna’s sword, so why—

Love for his brother washes over him, hot and heavy. He’s not felt this emotion in some time and his loyalty to his kin only grows. There’s no doubt in his mind that Izuna knows what he saw yet he still chose to tell their father a lie.

Refusing to let this opportunity go to waste, Madara speaks. Slowly and carefully, the words tumble from his mouth.

“Izuna was correct. The Senju. He had disguised a dagger. I saw it and thought Izuna was next. He’s my only brother left. I couldn’t—”

The breath catches in his throat and he stops speaking.

Tajima remains silent, seeming to assess his words for truthfulness.

Painstaking seconds pass before the other finally speaks. 

“I see.” With that, footsteps are heard as is the sliding of the fusuma doors.

“Wait—why am I here?”

“Because whatever truth Izuna’s words bring, you still have history with the Senju. I must assess your sincerity. Only then will I return your eyes to you and your freedom.”

Frustration wells within him but also relief. His eyes were still in this world. Praised be the gods.

“Father, you cannot possibly think to keep me locked away—”

“I will do whatever I wish! You are not needed on the battlefield. Your brother and I shall hold quite fine.”

“You can’t—”

“I will return eventually. Sit and think about what you’ve done and we’ll speak later.” 

With that, the fusuma shuts and Madara is left alone once more to silence and himself. 

“Fuck!” he curses, smashing his hands against the tatami. He staggers to his feet, stomping toward the doors without another thought. Jolting harshly when his hands come in contact with the wall, he lurches forward before righting himself. He feels for the handle or edge and when he finds it, tugs.

Useless.

He kicks, expecting the flimsy paper-like door to cave but it doesn’t.

His father put a seal on the room. That would explain why, even as sensitive he is to chakra natures, he could feel none outside the room.

He stalks away in anger, running his hands along the walls as he did before. He needs to be aware of every parameter. Every nook and every cranny. 

Escape is his first priority. Getting out and retrieving his eyes.

The next will be Izuna. He knows his brother must be unaware of what is happening to him, is certain of it, and Madara needs to explain. 

As for the last…

Flashes of Hashirama fill his mind’s eye and longing on top of worry flood him. His heart aches and there is nothing he can do about it. 

He knew it was stupid. Knew it from the moment they met the first time in that cave. The first time Hashirama’s lips fell to his and the first time the boy looked into his Sharingan without hesitance or fear. 

Foolish, he thinks, utterly foolish. He was smarter than that. 

He shrugs them away. Whatever good memories he has now will need to be locked away either to keep safe from whatever future his father brings or to comfort him when needed.

He finds a small bathroom in the corner. Tiny from its size, but there are the proper utilities present, which is a relief in of itself. 

When his survey is complete, he sits back down in the perceived center of the room.

Meditation seems like a good discipline. Something to keep his mind from straying at the quiet, nothingness of the room.

He just hopes it lasts.

*   *   *

It does work. For the next few weeks, but as a month rolls around with no human interaction, he becomes fidgety. 

Meals are delivered silently, sliding through the doorway with ease. The only problem is he can’t get through the doorway. He’s tried and the result is almost as if he were being struck by lightning.

He’s adjusted to his new lack of senses, as well. His hearing has improved greatly. There are mice he can hear scurrying through the room, but they suspiciously disappear when they must leave the seal’s perimeter. 

A privacy seal and a barrier seal. What else is there that he’s unaware of?

His mind strays with the silence and he’s left with his thoughts. Boredom is something he never thought he’d experience and never truly understood the detriment of until now.

It’s worse than the darkness of Yomi.

As his seventh week rolls in, he begins to hear voices. First Izuna’s then Hashirama’s. Each time, he startles and almost replies back until he realizes—

He’s going crazy.

Fear eats him with the thought. He will not be like his father. Will not let madness consume him. He’d much rather take his own life than see what he becomes after that.

As the second month rolls around, his father appears and he’s not alone.

“Madara.”

He tenses, head snapping over. The chakra next to his father is unfamiliar. Unknown. It makes the hair on the back of his neck rise.

“Who’s with you?”

“None of your concern. I am here to discuss the Senju.”

Minutely, his body tenses. “What about them?”

“I have reason to believe your loyalties are not with us.”

“I told you—”

“And you lie. You’ve been conspiring with the Senju Demon for years.”

He can’t stop the way he freezes. Whatever he expected his father to say, that was not it.

“I wasn’t—”

“Lies!”  

His mouth clicks shut as dread overcomes him. 

“You’ve been fornicating with the enemy, Madara-Chan.” The voice is one he doesn't know. One he’s never heard before, low and gravely. Chilling. 

“Who are—”

“Ah-ah, somethings are meant to be secrets,” the unknown states. 

Tajima seethes.

He can sense the kunai flying toward him but doesn’t dodge. It sails past his head, surely catching a few strands of dark hair along its path before it imbeds in the wall behind him.

“A traitor! You’ve been a traitor this entire time, Madara!”

His own fury is quiet. 

“Our secrets. Our livelihood, you’ve just given them up!”

“I’ve given nothing away,” he snaps. 

“More lies! How did the Senju know we would attack?! They should have been caught off guard, yet they fled. Perfectly without a single life lost!”

Trepidation slides over him, slimy in its crawl. He can’t—he will be killed for treason. 

“I don’t know. They must have had a defense—”

“You lie! There would have been no reason for a retreat had they not known!” 

He’s caught.

Slowly, he breathes through his mouth as his heart thunders in his ears.

“My son. A traitor,” Tajima crows.

The unknown murmurs something he probably thinks Madara can’t hear, but he’s underestimating. 

“We must show him the right way. You cannot win a war against the Senju without him.”

His mind races. 

The implications of those words wash over him as does a newfound anxiety. Just what do they plan to do with him?

His father is in front of him the next moment, fingers taking his chin in a bruising grip. His head is forced up and even if he can’t see, he knows the look of angry disappointment his father is glaring down at him.

“You should be killed for this, but… I cannot kill my eldest child. Not the one blessed with the Mangekyou. It would seem your liaison with the Senju did fabricate something useful. I will do as a father should and correct your mistakes. You need not worry. When we are through, you will see the Senju for what they truly are.”

Nausea swirls in him and his breathing increases.

“What do you mean?”

A hand caresses his face. 

“All in due time.”

With that, the two retreat. 

Madara rushes after them, but he is in no state to defy his father. Anyone else, he could overpower them but not Tajima. Not while blind.

“Father!” he yells, fist slamming against the fusuma. It rattles with his force. “You cannot leave me here!”

But alas, his father does.

*   *   *

Time passes and it blurs. Where he used to be able to tell night from day, keeping time as it should, it meddles now. He can neither tell night from day, nor an hour from a minute. Everything passes slowly.

He is going mad.

Thoughts of his father and the stranger trouble him relentlessly, refusing to leave his mind.

Just what does his father plan to do? 

Change him, yes, but how?

A theory swirls in his mind and he refuses to entertain. It was inconceivable. Impossible. His father would never—

Except his father took his eyes, did he not? Something forbidden. Something so sacrilegious that not even the harshest of criminals are punished as so. Sealed, perhaps, but never stolen. 

Still, he tries to prepare himself for anything.

He feels the presence as the door opens, familiarity washing over him and he’s on his feet before he can think of anything else.

Izuna smells the same as he did months ago, earthy and of the pines within their compound.

“Aniki—”

“Izuna, what’re you doing here?” he breathes, arms refusing to leave the other. He only realizes how stiff Izuna is after his own endorphins die away. He pulls back and Izuna steps out of his hold. “What’s wrong?”

Silence ticks past with their breaths.

“You… betrayed us.”

Something cold swells within him. “I didn’t—”

“You did. Father says so.”

“Father is mad.”  

“Yet he holds true points. How did the Senju know of our invasion?”

Madara’s hands clench as he hides them in the sleeves of his yukata. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah?” Anger, harsher than he’s ever heard Izuna use toward him, coats the boy’s words. “Because I think you do. Do you know how many died that night? How many Uchiha lives were lost because you told the enemy?”

Guilt eats him, immeasurable in its devouring. 

He didn’t—it was their fault. He told his father what a bad idea it was. How it would be suicide, but the man didn’t care.  

Izuna even understood and agreed with him! 

So, why—

“Kagami died, you know.”

Disblief washes over him. “Kagami?”

“He was there.”

But that can’t be right. They never took any children—

“Hikaku too. Gone. Just like that because of you. You, Aniki.”

Suddenly, a memory consumes him. Blood, so much blood. A battlefield filled with wood and—

Yes, Kagami was here. He died so, so harshly. A stake through the chest. Yes, he did, but Hashirama wouldn’t—

He did.  

Hikaku too. He can see clear as day in his memories the way they both fell on Senju land. Fell to Hashirama.  

Something tingles in the back of his mind, whispering that something is amiss but all he can feel is a gut-wrenching sadness. 

His family. Gone, because of—

Another memory assaults him. Hashirama’s warm smile. His hands on Madara’s body, exploring. Warm brown eyes as he tucks black hair behind an ear before cupping Madara’s face.

My love…  

He blinks, a reflexive action, as he realizes. A hand reaches out and Izuna smacks it away roughly. He feels the sting, the burn, yet…

“You’re not real.”

Izuna says nothing and he seethes.

“Genjutsu? On me?!”  

He channels all of his chakra to break it. It bursts and Izuna is gone, leaving him alone in the room. It doesn’t take much thinking for him to know this was his father’s work and a sudden sinking realization that this was how he was going to try and break Madara.

“Fuck,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. 

He’ll need to be more careful and far more wary. If his reality can be warped that easily… Suddenly, his time here is a lot more detrimental than he originally thought. 

He needs to escape. Fast.

*   *   *

His father’s tactics never cease and his mind quickly becomes warped. His thoughts are aroused constantly, and reality twists. He can neither discern what is real and what is not, and he feels himself toeing the line between madness and sanity.

Clack.  

He tenses, his breathing ceasing as he awaits. The chakra—he can’t tell. Hasn’t been able to for some time now and he doesn’t want to acknowledge what that means for him. 

Would it be Izuna, again?

Kagami perhaps. That was a dreadful experience. 

Maybe Hikaku—

“My Love.”

All the air leaves him in a rush. Tears spring against emptiness and he lowers his head. He will not be fooled.

Fingers clasp his knees harshly.

His father was playing in his mind. Had to be in order to know what Hashirama calls him.

“My Love, look at me.”

He refuses. If Tajima knows this simple fact, what else? What else has Madara given up unwillingly while his mind was being toyed with? 

Briefly, he prays that Izuna’s lie goes undiscovered. If anything shall be revealed, let it not be that. Not when he’s not there to protect him.

Fingers grasp his chin suddenly, familiar and warm. His head tilts up and a voice commands, “Look at me.”  

He does.

Astonishment fills him when he realizes he can see. See Hashirama. See the way he leans forward slightly. The soft smile always present when he looks at Madara. Eyes so soft, they crinkle at the corners. 

Long brown hair tumbles over his shoulders and he feels his throat close with longing. It aches.  

“You’re not real,” he whispers and Hashirama tilts his head.

“But… I am, am I not? I’m here, in front of you. Touching you. Speaking to you. I’m as real as you are.”

No you’re not.  

Anger hits him, searing and blazing. He smacks the hand away from his chin as he scowls.

“Leave!” 

The hurt expression that crosses the other’s face makes remorse fill him, but he locks it away.

He’s not real. He’s not!  

“Madara.”

His eyes fall shut once more at the voice. So achingly familiar, carrying with it the same weight and love of previous times.

Unable to take it any longer, he uses all of his chakra to command, “Leave!”  

And Hashirama does. He disappears as does Madara’s sight. Alone again, he breathes roughly into the silence of the room.

Fear laces through him. This new tactic, it will get to him. He knows it and if he does, his father certainly isn’t far behind. 

Hopelessness fills him as he scrounges for a way to combat it. Something. Anything. He just can’t—

*   *   *

Hashirama returns night after night, eating away his resolve. For what feels like years, his lover returns and each time, he’s different.

“My Love…”

“You Uchiha scum…”

“I hate you.”

“I love you.”

It’s insanity.

It’s lunacy.

He… breaks.  

*   *   *

It’s a gradual breaking. His morals remain resolute and strong for a good, long while. No matter what he is shown, he never folds. 

Not until—

He’s utterly exhausted. Sleep evades him despite his best efforts and even if it could take him, it wasn’t safe. Dreams plague him on top of the indistinguishable reality, and it was taking its toll on him. All he can see is Uchiha blood spilled on Senju swords, death upon death. Nothing is what it seems.

Clack.  

He’s too tired to react so he doesn’t. He continues to lie in his futon, staring at nothing for there is nothing to see.

“Madara.”

It’s the unknown. He can’t tell if his father is there or not and quite frankly, he doesn’t care.

“Why do you trust the Senju as so?”

I don’t, his mind snarls. The Senju, he wasn’t loyal to. The Senju, he didn’t care for and wouldn’t have it not been for—

Hashirama.

There’s a low chuckle, snake-like and inhuman. Had this been months ago, he would’ve wondered what this stranger looked like but now his curiosity eludes him.

“What if I said I could show you the reason your faith is misplaced?”

“How, then, should I tell the difference between reality and delusion?”

The unknown is silent, pondering this. 

“How about I make you a deal. I will show you the current future and after, you shall be free.”

He blinks reflexively before letting his lids fall shut.

Free?

Free?  

He sits up.

“Explain.” 

He doesn’t know the man. Can’t even see, but he knows the vicious smile that must be playing on the other’s lips.

“What I have here is a seal. Something from centuries ago woven by the Six Sage himself. It will allow us not to be placed in, but look into the future. Just a mere glimpse of what will happen and I believe that what you see will change your mind on your… distraught loyalties.”

Madara doubts and doubts, but he doesn’t refute because—

“If I see what you wish me to see, I will be let go?”

Another chuckle. “Of course.”

“Father would never—

“Your father quite listens to every word I say. So… how about it?”

He weighs his options. 

This person was quite arrogant. Quite assured that whatever Madara sees will lead to his wavering thoughts. 

Madara knows otherwise. Knows that his feelings and emotions are strong and his loyalty even more so.

Besides, there is also the factor that whatever he sees isn’t real. It most likely isn’t. The genjutsu—

“As consolidation, your eyes will be returned to you as well.”

His head snaps over and his brow furrows. 

“To prove that this future isn’t a genjutsu, I will even allow you to recover. To regain your strength so you can see for yourself this truth.”

Uneasiness swells in his gut. He’s fearful for what he will be shown. If it’s truly the future as this unknown speaks… 

What is it like? Why is he so certain it will lead Madara to change his faiths?

“Okay.”

“Then it is agreed upon.” 

With that, the unknown slithers away and Madara is left with new thoughts.

*   *   *

Time passes and there are no new visions. No gejutsus to make him question his reality anymore, and slowly, his chakra reserves grow strong once more, no longer being depleted constantly from the repeated breaking of fantasies. 

He prepares mentally this time, resolving himself for whatever he will be shown. He’s certain that with his strength, he could break even Izuna’s genjutsu, so… just what will he see?

Clack.  

He tenses as he senses the unknown chakra. It was a relief, just slightly, being able to sense again. Being able to see even without his eyes.

“So… are you prepared?”

His back straightens and face hardens. 

“Yes.”

A cold hand clasps his face. It’s a weird texture, nothing he’s ever felt before. Certainly not skin, but before he can ponder it further, something is smearing across his closed eyelids.

“With this, we will be transported to the future. Many different times to show you what exactly will become of your dream with the Senju and how doomed it was from the beginning.”

A small doubt creeps in. It looms over him like a cloud, stubbornly persistent even as he tries to shoo it away.

He steels himself. Whatever he sees, he’s prepared. 

Truly.

As the unknown’s fingers leave his face, his visions whites—a drastic difference from the utter darkness he’s become quite intimate with and suddenly, there’s nothing.

*   *   *

The first thing he sees is a battlefield. He’s gazing upon it like a god looking down on the earth. 

Before he can think of anything else, he quickly tries to dispel the genjutsu. Uses all his newfound strength and nothing changes.

He stomach sinks in that thought, letting it wash over him as his gaze looks down. This truly was the future.

It’s an Uchiha-Senju battle, he can tell immediately and is that—

He sees himself, or, at least, what he perceives himself to look like in a few years’s time. In this, Izuna is wounded fatally.

“…why don’t we end this?”

That. That was Hashirama’s voice. He’s standing in front of the future Madara and Izuna with a pleading expression.

More words are spoken and Hashirama holds out a hand.

Future Madara is leaning toward it, he can see it in the other’s eyes, but Izuna speaks.

“No, Aniki… don’t be deceived by them.”

And with that, they flee, leaving Hashirama behind.

Reality shifts to another scene. One that makes his heart drop and his stomach turn.

Izuna was there.

Dead.

His brother was dead.

He could clearly tell with how Future Madara is crying over the corpse, cold and lifeless.

What kind of future is this? 

His little brother. His only alive little brother. Dead. Izuna can’t die. 

He won’t.  

The scene shifts once more. Years in the future again, he’s on the ground with the White Reaper standing over him. 

I’m going to die, he realizes, watching as the albino sheathes his sword inside Madara’s chest, except—

It doesn’t that far before Hashriama stops it. 

He pleads, like always, and tries to take his own life in return, but Future Madara stops it. Of course he does. If this was truly him, then there would be no way he’d allow Hashirama to die even if they were enemies.

Another scene, Senuju and Uchiha flags are strung with their clan members on either side. Future Madara and Hashirama are in the middle, hands clasped. 

This is it, he thinks. This is their village. 

The disbelief and excitement he feels bubbling is quickly dissuaded as the scene shifts again.

“Madara? For Hokage?”

He tenses at Tobirama’s voice filled with disbelief and disgust.

Hashirama sits behind a desk, looking at his brother cooly.

“That’s not your choice! For a leader candidate, that’s one thing, but you can’t decide who will lead on your own. It will need the village’s final decision.”

Hashirama looks stricken, “But…”

“Besides,” Tobirama cuts him off, voice hard and eyes steely. “Madara would never be chosen to lead us. Everyone knows that you’re the driving force behind the village. Even the Uchiha will acknowledge that. And Anija… haven’t you heard the rumors?”

Hashirama’s brow twitches and his lips thin. “Rumors are just that.”

“The stronger their hate, the greater their ocular powers. That’s the secret of the Sharingan.”

Lies, he thinks, glaring at the younger Senju. Utter lies.  

“You can never tell what they might do. So for the village’s sake—”

“Enough, Tobirama,” Hashirama commands, frowning at his brother. He opens his mouth to speak more when a noise startles them apart. There’s more to the discussion but the scenery shifts again.

Madara is left pondering the youngest Senju’s words. Was the discourse really that—

They’re taken to the Uchiha compound. Or, at least, what is to be the new one. Hashirama is chosen as the leader, as his brother had intended and his future self is—

Angry.

They’re arguing. Over Tobirama and his hate toward the Uchiha. Over his discrimination and his loathing.

Future Madara wants to leave, but no one else agrees. He’s even been expunged from his leadership over his own clan.

“I couldn’t protect my little brothers and now I can’t even keep my own oath to protect my clan. They don’t trust me any longer—”

“That’s not true!” Hashirama rushes. “I’m sure everyone will—”

“I should’ve given you no other option but to kill Tobirama… You call me a brother, but if it came down to it, which one of us would you choose to kill for the sake of the village?”

Hashirama pales, his voice remaining silent but the answer was quite clear enough.

That’s not fair, Madara thinks, staring at the scene as his future self turns away. The beginning signs of anger stir within him. That’s like him asking me to choose between him and Izuna—

Except Izuna isn’t there. 

Izuna is dead and he’s being isolated. 

Future Madara leaves and the present one is sick.

“Do you see now,” the unknown speaks next to him. His eyes flicker over but all that remains is a dark shadow and a deep yellow eye. “The Senju cannot be—”

“This doesn’t need to be our future,” he snaps.

Yellow eyes observe him before a muttered, “So be it.”

The scene shifts.

Another battlefield, except this time it’s just the two of them. Hashirama and Madara, there in a canyon. 

It’s raining.

Both bleeding and bruised, Madara snarks something down at the fallen Senju but his sword never raises. Never aims to kill and then—

A knife is plunged into his back.

His back.  

Sickness overcomes him and horror at the sight of Hashirama standing behind him. The only person who he would ever allow himself to turn his back to and he—

He—

“I’m going to protect our… my village. No matter what it takes. I shan’t tolerate anyone who seeks to harm it, be it my own brother, my lover or even my own child.”  

The sword recedes and Future Madara falls.

“You’ve changed, Hashirama.”

An emptiness befalls him.

For years, there was no doubt in his mind that Hashirama would be his end. Be it the reason or by the hand itself, Senju Hashirama would lead his demise.

He detested it.

Loathed it, but—

He accepted it. Made peace with it with their first shared kiss that only grew, but now…

“One more scene and we shall return,” the darkness speaks to him and once again, the scene shifts.

It’s the village, he vaguely realizes, but different. More populated and more structured. 

There’s a shrine and in front of it is a boy, no older than thirteen and of clear Uchiha descent, and a man whose eye is covered in bandages.

“Choose. Die with your family in repentance for the attempted coup d'etat or kill them yourselves and spare a single life. Thus are the orders from the council.” 

The boy jolts with the order and Madara seethes silently. This was a child. The very thing they swore to protect and he was being told to kill his own clan?

Coup d’etat? 

Why would the Uchiha plan a coup d’etat?

And why would the village order him to do it?

Another change and—

Death. Destruction. Blood. 

So much blood. 

It’s an Uchiha compound, he can tell with the uchiwa fan spread out. 

And the blood…  

Bodies everywhere and the very child he saw previously slaying the ones running away. 

Screams so loud fill the air and—

“This is all I can show you,” the darkness states, its voice strained. The figure pants slightly. “This is as far as I can go and even then—”

Reality shifts back and Madara is sightless again. 

He sits in his room—his torture chamber with mismatched thoughts. 

Was his… dream truly doomed from the start? All the times they spent planning. The hours shared, the intimacy?  

A knot swells in his throat.

“I will… leave you to your thoughts,” the unknown states, his chakra nothing but a tiny speck. He was truly drained. “In a week’s time, I shall return and you will make your choice.”

Fusuma doors slide open and the chakra disappears.

Madara mourns.

It wasn’t possible. All of their hard labor, their dreams—  

His clan will be slaughtered. Perhaps it is during a time that he is not and never will be apart of, but the results are the same. 

A knot swells in his throat, solid and immoveable. 

His heart aches.  

Hashirama killed him with a sword through his back. His lover, his everything. Through the very place where he knew Madara was wary of. 

Betrayal pieces him and it stings harshly. Worse than anything he’s ever felt. Not even his father’s disloyalty hurt as much as it does now.

The Senju and the Uchiha. They truly were… doomed weren’t they? Even when they achieved peace, tempers were still prevalent. 

Tobirama’s prejudice and Madara’s own stubbornness. 

The death of his clan.  

It was… pointless.

Everything. 

Their dreams.

Aspirations. 

Futile.  

*   *   *

“So… Have you made your choice?”

He tenses at his father’s low tone but doesn’t flinch. His resolve is strong.

He nods once.

“The Senju… Cannot be trusted.”

He can feel Tajima’s approval. 

“Your eyes will be returned to you, but only after a test.”

His resolve is steel.  

His heart immovable. 

“What test?”

“You will return to the battlefield. Blind. Should you return alive, your convictions will be heard and your eyes returned.”

His hands ball into fists.

“Whatever you say, Father.”

*   *   *

And the battlefield does he return. His head is bandaged and eyes still gone, but he stands firm. He is Uchiha Madara. Nothing will defeat him.

Not even Senju Hashirama.

He slays everyone in his path. Being intimately familiar with the Uchiha allows him to differentiate between chakra signatures with ease.

A monster, they call him. 

Ruthless. 

Merciless, he slaughters his enemies.

He will not be defeated. His clan will not die.

No matter who he has to kill to keep it that way.

*   *   *

Sight is something he is unaccustomed to. Everything is clear, brighter than he remembers. His hearing is just as good, but with vision, he will be unstoppable.

Izuna is confused but happy. Apparently, his father has kept him out of the compound for a year.

Madara was isolated for a year.  

It’s not Izuna’s fault what conspired during that year's absence. It seems their father took great precaution to keep Madara’s status secret even to his own clan. There are rumors, of course. That he died, that he was spirited away, but all turned moot with his reappearance. 

Izuna was told a lie to keep him from interfering with Madara’s… deconditioning. His father explained to him before he left his room that Izuna thought him ill, having contracted sickness after his Mangekyou was unlocked, and he sees no need to change Izuna’s thoughts for he was alive. Still breathing meaning things can change, for the good.

“Aniki,” Izuna starts a few nights after his return to the compound. He looks nervous and immediately, Madara is on guard.

“What’s wrong?”

Izuna fiddles with his robes, eyes flicking about anxiously. 

“The Senju… What do you plan on doing with them?”

Madara’s head tilts in confusion.

“They will be destroyed.”

Black eyes widen in disbelief.

They share a brief silence while Madara wonders why his brother is so shocked by his words. It was the way of their clan, after all. Destroy the Senju.

A dark brow furrows. “Aniki, are you okay?”

Madara turns away, going back to his scrolls and his work. “I am fine.”

“You want… to destroy the Senju?”

“What else would there be?”

There’s a longer silence before Izuna bows his departure and leaves. Briefly, he wonders again why his brother brought the cursed name up before he brushes it away. Izuna held his own hint of mystery and he found it entertaining. 

*   *   *

Izuna is more cautious around him for some reason, but he’s too preoccupied with his own dealings to notice. Still, every now and then, he can feel his brother’s eyes pour into him but he pays it no mind. Ignores it and pushes it away.

Izuna was alive and that’s all that matters.

*   *   *

His resolve comes to a head the first time he meets Hashirama on the battlefield.

“Madara!”

He staggers, hurt and heartache lacing him so heavily he almost wilts under it, but he forces himself right.

Izuna enters his peripheral and his jaw hardens.

Brown eyes, soft and full of so much relief, cause a knot to swell in his throat. It hurts.  

“Senju Demon!” Tajima howls from beside them, pointing his sword steadily. “You will die here.”

Hashirama’s eyes flicker away briefly and Madara allows himself a glance. One last look at the boy— man he once called a lover. 

He was older, only by a year, but… There were differences. His body was bigger and his hair much longer. It reaches his waist in waves.

It hadn’t even passed his ribs the last time he saw.

He aches.  

His eyes sting.

“Aniki…”

His gaze hardens and shoots away as Hashirama looks back at him. There’s a silent message in his gaze, quiet worry and Madara doesn’t acknowledge it. He can’t.  

Instead, they charge into battle.

Hashirama meets his sword with confusion. Meets his blows with defense but never offense.

It angers him.

“Fight me!”

Hashirama stumbles.

Madara takes the chance, sword swinging.

Wood sprouts from the ground, protecting its castor and Madara rages in fury. 

Brown eyes look at him, hesitant and in disbelief. 

“Madara… my Love—”

His eyes sting.  

Before he knows it, something swirls to life. A burst of blue chakra encases him and—

Is that an arm?  

Confused, he stares at it all the while the agony in his eyes multiplies. 

Hashirama’s eyes widen in shock, wood sprouting to deflect a blade made of pure chakra.

The battlefield halts at Madara’s newfound power, breaths baited. 

Tajima breaks the eerie silence, shouting his joy at his eldest child.

“That’s it, Madara! That is the power of the Mangekyou Sharingan!”

Deep rooted hatred springs to life at his father’s voice, but he quells it just as quickly. One look at Izuna’s wide gaze has him falling back.

Hashirama springs forth, intent on stopping him but that spur of chakra halts his movements and he’s stuck, defending.

Blood drips from his cheeks as he feels his chakra draining fast from… whatever this was. Izuna is at his side in an instant, worried and concerned.

“Aniki.”

“We can’t remain here. I’m losing too much chakra to… whatever this is.”

Izuna’s red gaze hardens and he nods once.

*   *   *

Tajima is ecstatic. His excitement is so utterly uncontrollable that Madara finds himself hiding away from his enthusiasm.

Susano’o, his father called it. One of the many powers the Mangekyou grants its owner. Only achievable by the greatest loss one can feel. With it, he will be undefeatable.

He stares down at his hands. It was quiet in this room, reminding him of his year of isolation. His year of torture, but it was different now. He could leave when he wanted and he could sense the others within the building and out of it.

Quite the sensor he’s become.

Brown eyes flash in his mind, lacing him with pain momentarily before he can quell it.

Hashirama was surely to be confused. Hurt, but Madara couldn’t back down. Their dreams wouldn’t come true, ever. The Uchiha would continue to be ill-fated, even into the far, distant future.

Madara couldn’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen, even if it means severing himself from the man he loves most.

His hands fists.

Yes, he will do what needs to be done.

Tajima’s voice echoes somewhere in the house and that leads his trail of thoughts astray.

He will not forget the man’s due punishment, but first… he needs to learn his father’s knowledge. Learn who the stranger that was always with him was and the powers of the Mangekyou. 

Then, he will take his birthright by force.

*   *   *

“You were never sick, were you?”

He freezes, body tensing. The scroll in front of him blurs the longer he stares, before he blinks, eyes flicking up.

“Pardon?”

Izuna stands in the doorway, staring down at him with a hardened jaw. He steps inside, slapping a privacy seal on the fusuma and sliding shut behind him.

Clack.  

The noise rouses his nerves but he doesn’t let it show as he places down his brush and straightens. He has a feeling he’s not going to like this conversation.

“Your year of absence. You were never sick.”

He contemplates.

It’s been six months since his return. Six months since and it’s been utter domination for the Uchiha on the battlefield. Not even the Senju stand on par with them, mostly due to Hashirama’s clearly broken heart. He pleads to Madara each time their swords clash, low enough no one else can hear. He questions and he promises things that will never come true. 

Madara has yet to speak a word in reply.

Izuna stands in front of him, refusing to sit and he focuses on the present.

“What makes you say that?”

Black eyes harden, the barest furrow in Izuna’s brow. 

Concern. His brother was concerned. That wasn’t good.

“I’ve never been one to listen to rumors. Gossip, but—”

“Then why start now?”

“Because you’re different.”  

The venom in Izuna’s tone draws him short. His eyes narrow in thought.

“You’re—you’re—Do you even remember our last battle against the Senju?”

Something sparks his memory and he feels dread fill him. 

“Yes, it was quite bloody. My Susano’o is still developing—”

“Not now. Then. Before you disappeared?”

Unease eats him. He’s tried not to think about that battle. About anything before because it could make his resolve waver and it couldn’t. It couldn’t.  

Izuna nods his head as if reading his thoughts.

“I thought so. You’ve forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“I lied for you, Aiki.”

Madara blinks. He thinks and he remembers.

Fuck.  

He’d forgotten. Forgotten that Izuna lied for him and forgotten his questions as to why.

His brother’s jaw is tense and his gaze steely.

Madara breathes slowly, not allowing panic to overcome him. “So… you did.”

“Yes, and I want to know why. Why did I lie?”

“I can’t say. You tell me.”

Frustration bleeds across Izuna’s features. 

“Father let it slip. He said I was under genjutsu before and when I asked him what he meant, he told me about that fight. About my recount, and said that I lied to him. He knew and he laughed it off. I played the part of the unsuspecting victim, confused and worried, but he waved me away, saying that you were better now. Weren’t tainted by the Senjus anymore, so I want to know what happened. How did he know I lied?”

His jaw flexes. 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?!”  

“No.”

“Then what do you know?!”

He assesses the situation as calmly as he can, noting Izuna’s stubborn posture and raised chin. There was only one person in this gods forsaken world that could rival him in sheer stubbornness and it was his brother. Only his brother and Izuna were certainly not letting this go until he received an answer.

“Because I would like to know why you received your Mangekyou for a Senju and then disappeared. Why Father seems to know about it yet you still live.”

He pales.

Izuna’s hardened expression falls away and his brother kneels in front of him. Hands clasp his, warm and comforting. 

“Please, Aniki. Tell me what happened.”

Madara stares at their connection and feels emotions he’s shoved away resurface. That time was something he never planned on sharing. Never even thought about it until now, but his brother needs to know some things, doesn’t he? When Madara finally takes their father’s life, he will need to know the reason.

“I… was confined.”

Izuna tenses but doesn’t pull his hands away and for that, Madara is thankful. 

“Father thought my loyalties dissuaded and he strove to get them back. He… took my eyes and locked me away.”

His brother’s breath catches in his throat and his hands squeeze.

“No…”

“He isolated me and drained me of my strength. He put me in genjutsu for quite a while until he finally realized how pointless it was. Once he realized my loyalties were still with the Uchiha, he let me go. Gave me my eyes back and here we are.”

“You were blind?!”  

He avoids Izuna’s wrenched gaze. 

“It was needed to pass Father’s test.”

“He took your eyes. Your. Eyes.”  

Madara nods. “Yes, I know—”

“Why is he still alive?”

His head snaps toward his brother, anger radiating from his every pore. Eyes flash red, tomoe swirl and Madara is overcome with affection for his brother again.

“Because there are things I need from him, but don’t worry. When I have them, his head is mine.”

That eases Izuna some. His hands still continue to squeeze Madara’s deathly pale and Madara’s content with the comfort that brings.

“So, the rumors… your return to battle blind. You really were?”

Madara nods and Izuna finally turns away. His hands leave as he sits sideways, staring at the far wall.

“Izuna—”

“All that time and I did nothing.”  

He blinks before leaning forward. “Izuna, it’s not your fault—”

Red eyes glare at him. “Yes, it is. If I had questioned anything, then you—”

“Izuna,” he states, leaning across his scroll and taking his brother’s shoulder in a grip. “You are not to blame.”

Tears well in Izuna’s eyes and his own widen in panic. He’s never seen Izuna cry. They both haven’t. Not since they were young, too hardened from war, so seeing this, it was enough to raise his concern.

“Izuna—”

A bundle of black hair tumbles into his chest and Izuna wraps his arms around his waist.

“I’m so sorry you went through that, Aniki.”

He’s tense at first, unused to physical affection for some time. Any physical touch, really, but he gradually relaxes. Fingers run through Izuna’s black hair and the boy nuzzles his neck.

“It’s—”

“Not okay. If you don’t kill him soon, I will.”

He attempts to stifle a smile, pressing his face into Izuna’s strands when it fails.

Something in him eases after that confrontation, making it easier to breathe. Whatever his actions, Izuna was worth it all. 

*   *   *

Izuna is different after that. More at ease and no longer sending Madara wary looks of confusion and doubt. They don’t bring up the way Madara unlocked his Mangekyou and neither do they discuss Izuna’s reason to lie. It seems whatever strife his brother had, their conversation cleared it up.

They were back to normal.

Well, as normal as they could be while planning their father’s death.

“I think you should do it now.”

He sighs mournfully as he stares down at the tea in his hands, so warm and delicious, before placing it back onto its tray.

“I can’t. You know this.”

Izuna paces the room, looking from window to window. “I don’t see why not. We’ve learned everything Father knows about the Mangekyou. What’s keeping you?”

He still has yet to speak of the unknown. The person with his father. Still, even all these months later, he has yet to even garner the barest hint of his chakra impression within the compound. It’s like he just… disappeared.

“There is a… person,” he states cautiously, “who was with Father. He… I need to find him or, at the very least, learn more about him before we kill Father.”

Izuna turns to him, black eyes assessing before he huffs.

“I—whatever, fine. Do as you wish.”

His lips twitch—something that’s been unknown to him for quite some time—at Izuna’s puffy attitude. It was… refreshing. 

“Be patient, Izuna,” he finally states, picking up his tea again. Good, still warm. “The time will come.”

Famous last words.  

*   *   *

His father’s madness spirals, deeper into anything he could have ever dreamed. Killing him now would be a mercy for what he’s done.

Anger shakes him to his core as he stares down at his unconscious brother. The—the seal spreads across his chest, black and inky.

“Do you see what you’ve made me do?”

Fury radiates within him. 

He’s done nothing wrong. He was the perfect son in every way, so why—?!

His fingers twitch, the hilt of his sword so cold beneath his grasp.

“Should you go back to the Senju, Izuna will die—”

He blinks and suddenly, he’s staring down at the bloody head of his father. Eyes burn as his hands shake with fury. 

Oh, there’s a sword in his hand. Where did that come from?

A familiar chakra signature makes its presence known next, appearing suddenly from the ground, and his grip tightens harshly. Blood drips from his blade, but not a lot. It was a clean cut, after all. Precise. 

“Look at what you’ve done,” is the familiar, eerie voice.

His fury resonates. 

“You could have killed your brother in the process, ever think of that?”

His gaze quickly snaps over, but he picks up instantly with his Sharingan the rise and fall of Izuna’s chest.

The tightness of his own eases, ever so slightly.

He turns.

The unknown hides himself in the shadows, yellow eyes glowing against the darkness. Eerie and utterly terrifying. 

It doesn’t phase him. 

The hilt of the sword creaks within his grip and he lifts it.

“Ah, ah~” the unknown states. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He was done being a puppet.

The Sharingan twists and the creepy, toothy smile of the other fades away.

“I don’t know who you are nor do I know what… but if I ever see you again…” Susano’o flares to life, blue and glowing.

The unknown cowers back, frowning finally. Both his swords raise, hovering threateningly.

“You will not be alive to tell the tale.”

The swords fall and the unknown fizzles into nothingness, hissing, “You will regret this, Uchiha Madara. Mark my words.”

His Sharingan shifts again, swirls and suddenly there is fire. Black and brutal, it burns anything and everything, but the unknown is gone. Nowhere to be seen.

Madara blinks and the fire—Amaterasu—disappears. With a knot in his throat, he turns back to his brother. Gathers his unconscious body in his arms and leaves the room, stepping over his father’s body in the process.

He pauses just outside the doorway, turning back to grab the head and leaving once more. 

The fusuma shuts with the softest clack.  

*   *   *

Gasps of horror ring out in the meeting room as Uchiha Tajima’s head rolls in the center.

“Oh my gods!”

“May the lords have mercy on us all!”

“What happened?!”

More and more voices ring and Madara’s temple throbs.

“Silence!” 

Instantly, the voices die away and focus is shifted to him. 

He glares. 

“Tajima was unfit to continue ruling this clan. His acts were brash and impulsive. He was falling into madness and no one thought to step up, so I did.”

The elders look at one another but no one refutes his words. There are a few looks of scorn—from elders who were close to Tajima despite his craziness, but otherwise he is accepted with looks of wary thankfulness.

When no one protests, he nods once and turns on his heel. 

There are things he needs to do.

Izuna…  

Many things.

*   *   *

Word spreads fast, as it always does, and within days Madara is reading leaders of encouragement and congratulations from clans that are on civil terms while receiving threats and curses from those they are not.

The Senju is a notable absence, but he would soon rather keel over than expect a letter despite whatever Hashirama still feels for him.

Izuna still has yet to wake, the… strange seal on his chest never leaving. Madara doesn’t know what it is. Has never seen anything like it and no matter how long he spends searching the archives, he finds nothing. Not a single clue.

It was a power move from his father, at best. Something to keep him under lock and key and he has a inkling to where his father got it. 

Shit.  

He should’ve captured the unknown rather than running him off. 

Hopelessness eats him and a memory floods his mind unbidden. Years and years ago, fourteen-year-old Madara made an untimely connection. Unlikely and he’s kept it secret since because why would he need her help?

His jaw clenches and he breathes slowly through his nose.

No. No, I can’t.  

His gaze drifts to his sleeping brother. 

The healers don’t know when he’ll awaken. Have no clue.

His teeth ache with the pressure.

*   *   *

Surprise, surprise. The Senju do send word… in a way.

Madara stares down at the Ceasefire agreement in his hands and wavers. It would be so… easy. So simple. Barely twenty-one and the war could be over—

No.

It will never be over.

Not as long as he complies with the Senju. His clan will be destroyed inevitably then. He can’t.  

He walks away, the blazing fireplace watching him go as his yukata disappears from the doorway. Within the burning embers, the Senju cursive Ceasefire…  

*   *   *

Sending word is easy. 

There’s a scroll, a seal that he’s stashed away for years—his self-disciplined mind the only reason his arrogance didn’t run wild and burn it immediately. 

He makes for the trip as soon as he sends notification of his plans, heading for the border of the Land of Fire with Izuna alone, still sleeping as peacefully as ever. He tells no one, placing Hikaku in charge momentarily, until his return, to which his cousin agreed with relative ease.

His brother is a heavyweight against his back, but nothing that he can’t handle. 

It takes them four days to get to the meeting point—a secluded cavern hidden in a deep canyon. A place filled with memories from years ago. 

His person is already present and his body tenses unconsciously as he picks up the massive chakra signature. She’s alone, at least, and he’ll give her that credit. Nothing gets past his senses. Not anymore.

Much like the inconspicuous garb he’s wearing, the woman’s clothes are similar. Forest green robes that allow her to blend into the surrounding scenery. 

She turns to him as he approaches, emerald eyes flashing under her hood.

“Uchiha Madara,” she states when he’s close enough, voice filled with disbelief. “I never thought I’d see the day. I heard you’re Clan Head now.”

He grunts, pulling his brother from his back and lowering to the ground between them tentatively.

“Mito,” he acknowledges informally. 

She raises a red brow as her hands come up to push the cloth from her crimson hair. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His jaw clenches and he breathes through his nose silently. It hurt his pride to do this, hurt it desperately, but… Izuna was worth his ego plus more.

The Uchiha weren’t on civil terms due to the heavy bond between the Uzumaki and the Senju. It just so happened that many years ago, when Tajima wasn’t so mad, the Uchiha accepted a mission on the border of the Land of Water and Land of Fire. 

Madara, fourteen and stubborn, came across Mito and her close circle being hassled. He watched from a distance because even that young, Uzumaki Mito was a force to be reckoned with. 

Admiration wasn’t something that came easily to him but watching her work, she earned it.

Up until the sneak attack happened. Quickly overpowered, Madara weighed his chances. He would win, of course, but saving an Uzumaki? That’s about as low as saving a Senju. 

Still, he helped her and her stubborn nature wouldn’t allow herself to be in an Uchiha’s debt, so she gave him a scroll. A sort of summoning that she would adhere to should the time ever come. 

He never was going to use it. Should have burned it, but…

He kneels next to Izuna, opening his yukata swiftly.

Mito’s breath catches. 

Black eyes glance up.

“I need help.”

Mito stares down in disbelief, her folding fan flitting out as she covers the bottom half of her face.

“Yes, Madara-Sama, I’d say you do.”

*   *   *

Mito examines Izuna thoroughly, the bright glow of green chakra checking him over. She pokes and prods the seal, each second passing tenser than the next.

“So?” he asks as she kneels back on her heels, perfect posture for an Uzumaki princess.

Her gaze is unreadable. “How did this happen?”

His jaw clenches. “Why is that—”

“You want my help, I want an answer.”

He glares and her fan flits out with a quick whip, covering herself once more as she stands.

“I want to know if this… sealing will happen again.”

“No,” he states, “My father did it as a means of… controlling me, I presume. He’s dead.”

Green eyes stare over a cream colored cloth. “I see that…” She sighs, gaze flicking back to Izuna. “You are quite lucky. This seal is ancient, something that no one else would know how to deal with, but I spent my entire childhood in the Uzumaki library. I am no prodigy for nothing.”

“So how do we get it off?”

Her fan hides most of the expression, but he can see her eyes crinkle. She’s either smiling or grimacing and he certainly hopes it’s the former. 

“We don’t.”

He processes the words, mulls them over and, “What?”

Emerald eyes are shadowed from their position deep, almost underground. 

“However powerful, this seal will go away on its own with its maker’s death. Your father died, so it should disappear. His body is fighting it on its own, like a fever, you simply can’t tell. It’s too subtle.”

His Sharingan flickers to life the next moment and Mito doesn’t even flinch. He must give the woman credit, she is very courageous. He looks away, observing Izuna intently. 

His brother’s breathing is just slightly faster. Barely, imperceptibly, and his heart is racing. There’s a dribble of sweat beading his hairline and Madara sags slightly, pressure easing from his shoulders.

He’s aware of Mito’s gaze on him but he can’t come to mind it as immense relief washes over him.

Izuna will live.

Praised be the gods.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

If Mito is surprised, she doesn’t show it.

Kneeling, he observes his brother intently. Should he wait for him to awaken before leaving? Or should he take him back unconscious?

He startles, only slightly, when Mito kneels across from him, her fan lying folded next to her.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, Sharingan swirling once more.

The woman pays him no mind, hands coming to Izuna’s chest, glowing green.

He relaxes slightly at the sight, watching intently should she do something to harm him.

“I may not yet be the best at healing, but… one day I will be,” she murmurs, eyes focused.

Madara says nothing, falling back and letting her work. Silence ticks by, wind rustling the leaves of nearby trees and whistling off canyon walls. It was a peaceful day for the occasion. 

“So… I hear you and the Senju will build a village.”

He tenses immediately, glare forming. “I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s nonsense.” 

Mito glances up at that, but her work never ceases. She raises a perfect red brow. 

“Hashirama speaks of you. He was quite… broken during the year of your disappearance.”

He scowls. “How would you know that?”

Something akin to amusement lights in her gaze. “Did you not know? We’re engaged.”

It’s like the floor is swept out from under him. He has nowhere to go, however, so he remains put, letting this information wash over him. Something akin to immense sadness sparks deep within before he buries it back down and brushes it away. Anger takes root immediately after, and he seethes for a moment before that, too, he pushes aside.

It’s not like they were anything anymore. Hashirama and him. They were nothing now and will be nothing forever.

Mito’s amusement fades with his lack of reaction and a furrow appears between her brow.

“However, that contract is long out dated. I don’t plan to adhere to my father’s course of actions and Hashirama understands and reciprocates this, but… I don’t mind him. I find myself quite close to him, if I am to truthfully admit. That’s how I know of your pending village. And his affections toward you.”

“There will be no village. There will be nothing!” He can’t keep the hurt anger out of his tone, looking away when she refuses to.

“You know… he spoke of you. Still does through our correspondence. You’re quite—”

“Silence!”

Birds fly from nests and his yell echoes. He tempers himself immediately, gaze steely. 

Memories plague him of that future. The horrid one, making his resolve harden. 

Izuna’s death.

Tobirama, speaking of Madara as if he were a rabid dog rather than the Uchiha patriarch.

Hashirama standing behind him, sword through his chest.

A child, no older than thirteen, being told to kill his clan and save one lest he die too.

It will never succeed.

“Don’t speak of him in my presence,” he states finally, voice barely containing his anger. “He is a Senju, I am an Uchiha. It will never work. There is no good future for us.”

Mito hums softly and quietly. She lets silence beat between them for a few moments before she speaks again.

“Why will it never work?”

“I don’t need to tell an outsider why.”

“Maybe not, but I think you’re underestimating him and his love for you.”

He snarls, standing to his feet with his fury. “You know nothing, Uzumaki! Nothing!”

Cool green eyes stare up at him, unperturbed by his reaction. Even if he could kill her with nothing but a blink of his eye, she shows no fear.

He must begrudgingly respect that.

“Why do you doubt?”

“Enough!!”

Quietly, eyes scrutinize him for a moment longer before she seems to finally listen. The green glow of her warm chakra falls away and she sits back.

“I am done. Izuna should awaken momentarily. I believe it’s time I take my leave.” 

Madara refuses to look at her as she passes by, fan flickering out with a click. Her footsteps are silent but her chakra presence large and looming.

“Madara-Sama…” she calls when she is some ways away.

Out of the danger reach, he notes with a silent snort.

“My debt to you is paid, there is nothing between us, however… no future is ever concrete. Whatever misconception you have about it, nothing is certain and… with the plans I have for the future, Uzushio won’t be home after much longer. I sure wish to join your village one day. I am sure it will be very lovely.”

His fists clench and her chakra signature disappears finally with a whirl of leaves. 

What does she know? An Uzumaki, so friendly with the Senju. They’re enemies, the both of them.

Still, her words echo.

No future is ever concrete.

Yeah, no shit, that’s why he needs to make one where the Uchiha prosper. Where Izuna lives and he doesn’t die due to…

Izuna stirs, face scrunches and immediately, Madara is at his side.

“Aniki…?”

He helps his brother sit, concern lacing him. 

“What happened?”

“Do you feel okay?” he asks, eyes flicking down to his brother’s chest. True to the Uzumaki’s word, the black sigils disappear, fading into Izuna’s skin until only the paleness remains.

“I—fine? What happened?”

He pulls his brother into a bone-crushing hug.

“So much, Izuna. So much.”

*   *   *

He acclimates into the leadership position with ease. He’s been groomed for it since birth, so it’s no surprise really. 

Izuna is ecstatic at the news, if not a little angry he wasn’t there (conscious) to witness their father’s demise. Gods, his little brother was sure blood-thirsty sometimes, wasn’t he? It made him proud.

One thing that he didn’t account for when becoming the clan head was politics.

He hates them.

Underestimation is his friend when he finally rises to the top. Everyone expects his temper to get the best of him and they think him easily manipulated for some reason. A few elders tried to intimidate him while others tried to grovel at his feet, each of which he shut down immediately and harshly. 

He was not a pawn. 

He was a leader and one who will make the Uchiha prosper. 

No one had any more complaints when the words left his mouth, echoing throughout the council room, and the elders quickly fell in line. He certainly had the battle history to back his claims.

He takes missions that would benefit the Uchiha and dissuades any that would not. If he happens to ignore the ones asking for retaliation against the Senju, well… no one has to know. 

No one does know, and before they know it, winter bleeds into spring, his first full year as a leader coming to a head without a vicious and bloody battle against their rivals, be it because of his own decisions or Hashirama’s.

He receives more ceasefires than he ever expected, causing his heart to drop each time as guilt swamps him before he can finally manage to push it away.

It was fine.

He was fine.  

*   *   *

Inevitable, their first meeting.

An accident. He hadn’t expected the Senju’s sudden arrival nor did it appear Hashirama expected the Uchiha’s appearance. 

Both clans, standing frozen as they await their leader’s orders. Tensions rise and anticipation soars.

“Madara…”

A quick, sharp glance from Tobirama has Hashiarama fumbling.

He can feel Izuna’s eyes pouring into the back of his head but he makes no moves to acknowledge it.

It hurt, he must admit, deep inside, to gaze upon his lov—Hashirama as such. They were much older. Their hair was longer and their bodies stronger. No longer was Hashirama that gangly teen Madara was intimately familiar with, whose body accompanied him for many years, and likewise neither was he.

His… chest aches and his mind whirls, but he can’t surrender to his emotions. Not for anything.

“Back down, Senju. We were here first,” he calls and Hashirama’s eyes flicker through many emotions.

Disbelief, anger, hurt.

Resignation.

Madara has to look away lest his resolve sways.

“Un… Unfortunately, Uchiha, we cannot.”

His jaw tenses and he forces his gaze back, unwavering. 

Hashirama has steeled his own.

A breeze whistles by, caressing them softly and ruffling their armor. 

Their brothers do what they cannot. Bodies flickering, they meet in the middle. Madara eyes Izuna’s back in horror while Hashirama eyes Tobirama’s in a similar fashion.

“What—”

“Izuna—”

The tension is broken and bodies fly forth immediately, clashing and slaughtering. 

He feels sick at the sight, but pushes himself forward as well.

It was his resolve.  

For my clan.  

Hashirama defends against his attacks only and it makes him angry.

“Madara, can we please—”

“Silence, Senju. I will hear nothing!”

Hashirama’s Sage Mode has improved greatly over the years, matching his own Susano’o perfectly. Wood sprouts and Madara dodges with ease. 

Too much ease.

“Stop underestimating me!” he snarls, swords clanking together.

Hashirama glares. “I will not fight you.”

“Then die!”

“Madara—”

He jumps back, hands twisting with expertise before air fills his lungs and he exhales fire, broad and wide in its path.

Hashirama dodges, rolling to avoid it and using his Mokuton to shield what he cannot. Brown eyes stare up at him and he thinks, finally. Hashirama’s resolve was clear. Strong.

The Senju fully joins the fight.

It was one battle of many. Still not as plentiful as past decades, but each time their swords crossed, the battles resulted in the same—bloody and cruel. 

Eventually, Madara gives up his sword for a gunbai, something he likes not to think about the implications of, given its less than offensive look, and Hashirama uses a giant scroll filled with weapons galore. 

One thing, however, Hashirama never gives up. 

He begs and he pleads, but his words fall on deaf ears. 

It’s utterly exhausting.

But it’s worth it.

For the future.  

*   *   *

If he’s more somber in the years to come, he can’t tell. Doesn’t pay enough attention, really, too focused on the present and changing fate.

Izuna, does, though. 

Quietly, he observes his brother. Watches the way he closes in on himself with each retreat from battle. It makes memories forgotten riddle his mind.

The swirling of a Sharingan as it shifts to Mangekyou.

His brother’s face as he strikes down, intending to kill once and for all the Senju leader.

Memories flood his mind.

You can’t—You can’t kill him, his brother pleads. Pleads.  

You can’t—you can’t die.  

A cave, isolated and safe with two bodies inside. He recalls the suspicion he felt then. The anger and the confusion at seeing his brother so—

His jaw clenches so hard his teeth creek.

Stupid Senju scum.  

*   *   *

It’s a cool day. Spring is full-blown and the trees are flowing. He sits under one, reading a scroll.

It was his twenty-fourth year now, his past seeming like a lifetime ago, yet he still… aches. During times like these.

Spring was Hashirama’s favorite season. The blossoming of the flowers, the growing of crops. Prosperous, Hashirama called it. Thriving, life becomes.

Pink petals fly past his head and his eyes follow them. 

Is Hashirama watching them as well?  

“Aniki!”

He blinks, gaze flicking to the main house some ways away. Izuna is waving at him from the doors. 

At least, he thinks it’s Izuna waving to him. It’s quite blur—

Dread washes over him, fast and heavy. 

He blinks again and again. Once more to make sure and yes, he’s—

Izuna is blurry. 

He is certain that a year ago, he had no problem with the distance. A heartbeat thunders in his ears and his throat swells.

Maybe it’s just age, he thinks, brushing it away and standing. 

Yes, he’s simply been spending too much time with the scrolls. Maybe it was time to give them a break.

He heads for his brother.

*   *   *

A few months later and it is undeniable. 

He is going blind. 

Thoughts race.

It must be because of his Mangekyou. Tajima once spoke of repercussions for obtaining such power but made it seem so frivolous that Madara didn’t even think twice about it.

He curses himself. 

Panic overcomes him before he manages to squash it away.

It’s okay. I’ll be fine.  

However, he knows it won’t be. One of the main factors of his plans for the future was keeping an eye on Izuna, so he wouldn’t be deathly hurt in battle. Thus far, he’s fared his own but Madara knows what he saw that day. 

It will be a fatal blow, and how can he watch for it if he’s blind?  

His fingers drum. 

He can tell no one. Not until he’s certain it’s the Mangekyou and then—

He’ll deal with it when the time comes.

*   *   *

Weeks of research in the Uchiha archives prove that, yes, his Mangekyou is making him blind and they give no explanation as to how to stop it.

Inevitable, it seems, is the exchange for such power. 

In order to protect the ones he loves, he must lose something of himself in the process.

He chokes out a humorless laugh deep within the silence of the library.

The power to protect… huh?  

*   *   *

It happens before he can tell Izuna. 

Another battle is forced upon them against the Hyuga because who else but them?  

He has done tremendously in battle even with failing eyesight, so it shouldn’t have happened. Should have been impossible. 

The Hyuga clan head Hisato is the one to do it.

It’s Madara’s fault. He’s distracted, mind not all there from the grueling thoughts of his own inevitable blindness and Izuna’s well being.

He really should have seen the blade coming.

“Aniki!!!”

His eyes flick over a moment before his chest goes cold. He glances down in time to see the long silver blade retract and his legs give out.

“Fuck,” he whispers, blood bubbling in his throat.

Izuna is in front of him in mere seconds, sword clashing with Hisato’s. 

“Stay away from him!”

He coughs, reaching out to pull his brother away from the enemy. They needed to retreat immediately when Izuna looked at him.

His stomach sinks.

Two newfound Mangekyou stare back at him and he mourns. He meant to tell Izuna before anything like this could happen. Meant to tell him of their curse.

Darkness wraps around him, slithering in like a snake and he’s helpless to refute it.

He’ll just tell his brother when he regains consciousness. 

*   *   *

He awakens to darkness accompanied by the dull light of candles.

The ceiling is blurry above him, much more than he remembers, and his body aches. He can’t resist reaching a hand up, falling into resignation when it, too, comes up bleary to his eyes.

His movements must disturb Izuna who’s sleeping soundly next to him, propped up against the wall with his head down-tilt.

“Aniki!” the boy gasps, leaning forward when he notices Madara’s eyes on him.

Despite the curse, Madara activates his Mangekyou, chest sinking when Izuna’s activates in return.

“Izuna…”

His brother looks proud.  

“I received my Mangekyou too!”

The look on his face must not be a good one because Izuna’s smile fades, replaced with a frown.

“Aniki…”

“I’m sorry Izuna. I couldn’t protect you from that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… was going to tell you. After this battle, but… I am going blind.”

Izuna stares at him, Sharingan fading away to black eyes filled with disbelief. 

His Mangekyou deactivates as well and he lets his eyes fall shut, unable to see if disappointment crosses Izuna’s features or not.

“You’re… going blind?”

He nods. “It is… the penance for our ocular capabilities. The Mangekyou provides the power to protect the ones we love, but with a cost.”

“You’re… going… blind?”  

His eyes open and he startles to find Izuna’s wet with tears.

“Izun—”

“You were suffering this entire time and—”

He sits up, breath punching from his lung when his chest aches.

“Izuna,” he states when he’s fully sitting. “I may be going blind, but I am still competent—”

“I don’t care about that!”

He blinks at his brother’s angry tone.

Izuna glares, leaning forward as his hands clasp Madara’s face.

“Aniki, you’ve suffered so much already. You don’t deserve to have your eyesight taken from you too.”

Warmth washes over him as love for his little brother fills him. Yes, this was the feeling that he fought for. The reason that he was able to give up on Hashirama because even if he severed their bond, the Senju would live. This way, no one would have to die.

He musters a soft smile and Izuna’s eyes widen.

“I will do anything to protect my clan and you. If going blind means that, so be it. I am not weak even without eyes. I will fare just fine, little brother.”

Izuna assesses him for a long while, black gaze flickering back and forth between his own before they harden. 

“Okay,” Izuna states. Their foreheads press together. “I… I am sorry you are going through this, but… I will accept your decision.”

“Thank you.” He pulls back, hand on his chest as his other grasps Izuna’s chin. “The only complaint I have is that you, too, will be susceptible to this blindness.”

“I will be—”

“Not fine. You can’t go blind. Not both of us. If I am incompetent, you will be clan head. Promise me, unless it’s dire, don’t use your Mangekyou.”

Izuna scowls. “No—”

“Izuna. Please.”  

Shock radiates his brother’s features.

He stares back intently, silently thankful he can still see Izuna’s face even if it crumbles.

“Okay, Nii-San…”

His heart melts with a title he hasn’t heard since Izuna was knee-high.

“Thank you.”

*   *   *

His eyes aren’t discussed. A secret kept between himself and Izuna only, and it will continue to stay that way until his sight leaves him completely.

All of his plans for the future, the avoidance and the aversion are rendered moot. 

How can he save Izuna if he can’t see?  

So he vows not to use his Mangekyou any longer unless it’s detrimental as well. He knows that it won’t last long—Hashirama was a formidable foe and should he hold back even slightly, he would be slain, but it should preserve his senses for a little longer.

Thoughts of the future begin to shift. Instead of trying to change it, he wonders what he needs to do to get it to end before he falls.

Where he once thought he would be content in maintaining the life they’ve come to loathe if it meant the ones he loved lived, he now sees an end which leaves him the question—

Where does he want the Uchiha to end? 

If not with the Senju, then where?

*   *   *

Everything comes to a head one summer’s day.

Another conflict with the Senju sparked an inevitable battle. One he wasn’t expecting. It was sudden and abrupt, his focus primarily on reserving his strength and strategic attacks so he wouldn’t have to overuse his Mangekyou when it happened.

He truly should have seen it coming. 

See, there was something he never questioned, never truly pondered from that vision all those years ago. 

He never thought of the how.  

How did Izuna die?

How did he let himself get hit?

How did Madara fail?  

Foolish, he knows, but he was preoccupied with the results rather than the how. He simply wanted to change it before it started. Prevent the attack before it could happen. 

Out of all of his theories, he never expected it to happen in such a mediocre battle. 

“Flying Raijin Slice!”  

The hairs on his neck rise at Tobirama’s voice and he turns just in time to see the White Reaper’s sword in Izuna’s lung, slicing through and leaving a clear wound.

It takes him a few detrimental moments to process what he’s seeing because it couldn’t be now.  

But it was, and as Izuna falls, horror overcomes him.

“Izuna!”

He’s over in a flash, catching his brother before he can land on the ground.

Hashirama’s over as well, standing a few feet away from him.

“Madara!”

He doesn’t acknowledge the call, too preoccupied with cupping the flowing wound on Izuna’s side.

“Aniki…”

“Hush, it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

“Madara, he needs to be healed. It looks fatal,” Hashirama tries.

He seethes, turning his glare on the other.

“And who’s fault is that?!”

Hashirama looks chagrin, sending his brother a pointed look but Tobirama remains nonplussed. 

“Let’s end this here,” Hashirama eventually calls. There’s discourse in the crowds of their people but no one speaks up against the Senju leader. 

Izuna gasps harshly against his neck, groaning softly. 

“Please. Let me heal him.”

Many Senju look at their leader with disbelief, but he ignores them all, stepping forth.

“Aniki…” Izuna murmurs, leaning into his side. His skin is cooling rapidly and soon enough, it will be too late.

Madara wavers. 

He remembers this exact scene. Izuna will die if he leaves, but his brother—

“Let’s… end this… war,” Izuna breathes, slumping against him.

Madara’s eyes widened in disbelief, head turning toward the other.

Hashirama steps forward again but he pays the Senju no mind as he asks, “What did you say?”

Black, tired eyes flick up at him and toward the person walking their way hesitantly. Blood drips from his mouth and he looks so weak.  

His little brother.

“I said… let’s end this…Aniki…” Izuna manages between ragged breaths. “Let him… heal—”

Black eyes roll to white before Izuna can finish and Hashirama is in front of them in a flash.

Emotions war within him.

The Uchiha behind him stir, voices rising in protest at the Senju’s closeness while others charge. 

Without blinking, Hashirama’s hands slam against the ground and four wooden walls erect around them, sturdy and confining. 

Finally, after nearly half a decade, they’re alone again.

Madara continues to stare at his brother, astonished. 

This was not… the future he saw. 

The words, they were different. 

No, Aniki… don’t be deceived by them.  

They were not the same. What made Izuna change—?

“Madara.”

He tenses, hand tightening on his brother unconsciously as he looks over. 

Soft brown eyes stare back at him, so familiar and full of memories. He feels emotions prick him.

“Let me heal him.” 

A knot, far too big for his throat, swells, and he can only nod his consent once before he’s lowering Izuna to the ground.

Hashirama’s over in a flash, hands brushing against his and he feels his eyes sting.

It was different…  

Silence becomes them as glowing green chakra fills the space between them.

Madara sits close, watching Izuna’s face. He doesn't even consider the thought that Hashirama could use this moment to kill him and his brother—he knows better than that.

Izuna’s words repeat over and over in his mind and he wonders if it really was that easy to change the future.

What made Izuna change?

The future he saw, Izuna died. He died because he was proud. He was Uchiha. He didn’t need a Senju to heal him, yet—

In the vision, Hashirama hadn’t offered to heal Izuna, did he? That was different too. No, that Hashirama advocated for peace but the words ‘let me heal him’ never crossed his lips. 

How utterly different. 

Hashirama leans back, hands falling away as does the green chakra. They’re left to silence, the both of them.

“He’ll… He’s stable. I’ll need to bandage him soon, but he should be fine. He’ll live.”

He’ll live.  

Madara blinks.

His eyes sting.

It really was that simple, wasn’t it?

“Madara…”

He refuses to look away from Izuna’s sleeping face, watching the way his chest rises and falls with simple ease. No matter how blurry, it was still there.

A warm hand cups his face and he flinches, blinking rapidly. 

Hashirama doesn’t pull away, the fool. Always the fool, his hand cups. His thumb caresses and he gently holds Madara’s face as he has many times before.

Madara lets him.

I missed this…  

The stinging is worse and there’s a knot in his throat. 

Fingers guide his chin and he allows himself until he’s looking Hashirama in the eyes. 

Concern. He’s concerned for me.  

Hashirama observes him quietly for a while before he speaks.

“What changed, Madara?”

The words bring reality back in and he pulls himself away, jaw clenching. 

What changed? What changed?  

Izuna dying changed, but—

That didn’t happen, did it?

Madara dying changed.

The Uchiha dying changed. 

“None of your—”

“My Love.”

His voice is stuck in his throat immediately and his head bows. Dark strands fall, shielding him from Hashirama’s gaze but warm fingers tuck it behind his ear. He was never able to escape the Senju’s gaze, was he?

Wet. His cheeks are wet and Hashirama’s breathing stutters.

He wasn’t prepared for this confrontation. Wasn’t prepared for the emotions it would bring nor the utter regret he feels. 

It was no secret that the Uchiha felt emotions in limitless bounds. When they hate, they hate harshly. When they’re sad, they’re utterly wrecked.

When they love, they lose themselves in it. Their loyalty is fierce and their fidelity even more so. They’re so utterly devoted that when they fall, the surface will never be the same again.

And Madara pressed it all away because his brother’s life was worth more than his love for Senju Hashirama.

At least, that’s what he told himself time and time again. Each time their blades crossed, it was for the future. It was needed.  

But Izuna was not dead. He didn’t die.  

So where does that leave Madara? All his devotion in making a future that won’t happen. 

It still could, he thinks. The Uchiha massacre. His death—

He can’t resist a look at the other. Hashirama looks so earthly concerned that he can’t even fathom the man in front of him as the same one who stabbed a sword through his back. 

How utterly ridiculous. 

Even the sting of lingering betrayal can’t outweigh the feeling coursing within him as he looks upon the other. It never went away—that feeling. Ever. He buried it, instead. Preoccupied himself with Izuna and his clan and never allowed him to think of anything else. 

It was easy to do—he never saw Hashirama outside of battle, but here he was now. The two of them alone with an unconscious—but alive— Izuna before them.

Where does he go now?

“You know, you killed me.”

It takes him a few seconds to realize the words came from him and a few more to see the confusion marring the other’s features.

“What?” 

He shifts, turning to look at his brother again before the confession leaves him involuntarily. He couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

“You’ll kill me. Many years from now, I guess. I die and Izuna dies. My clan dies. We—we made a village, you and I, and I—”

His voice cracks and he looks away, refusing to see the disbelief in the other’s gaze. He knows his words are mad—he’s sounding more like his father every day, it would seem—but they were true.

“We’re cursed to be together, you and I. We can’t. If we make our dreams come true, my people will suffer for it.”

His words die off and the sun beats down on them from a cloudy sky. Black eyes flicker up, staring at blue even if he can’t really see it. He can still see shapes far away. Assorted pieces but not the fine details. 

Breath baited, he awaits Hashirama’s rebuttal. For his disbelief and his denial, but it never comes. Surprisingly, it’s—

“Well, how do we change that?”

His head snaps over before he can help it, eyes wide in shock.

Hashirama stares back—he’s close enough that Madara can make out every expression. Every line across his face, every furrow in his brow. 

The Senju was serious.  

Madara laughs. 

It’s humorless and disbelieving. He never expected this route. Never anticipated.

Hashirama continues to stare at him impassively, seemingly waiting for an answer and Madara sobers with the thought.

“‘How do we change it’?” he repeats and the Senju nods, looking seriously. “You believe me?”

A head tilts, brown hair falling over a shoulder with the action. “Why would I not?”

Madara blinks. 

And blinks again.

And again, but nothing changes.

Hashirama is deathly serious. 

How unexpected. Of all the reactions in the world, in the realm of possibility, belief was not one of them.

“I—”

Hashirama leans forth, cutting him off. 

“My Lov—Madara, I see no reason for you to lie to me. Not a single one and despite all of our time apart, I still trust you with my life. You were and still are one of my most precious people and nothing will ever change that. Whatever you saw that made you believe there could be a world where I could raise a hand against you, I will believe because you do. That’s all that matters. I don’t need to know anything else.”

Something swells within his chest. It squeezes and it constricts. Neither can he tell if it’s panic or joy, but he knows he’s crying again. Can feel it flowing from his eyes and wetting his cheeks.

Hashirama’s eyes soften.

A hand cups his face once more and he’s guided forward. He lets himself fall into a chest that once brought so much comfort, relaxing when he realizes it still does.

His arms wrap around Hashirama’s neck as he inhales a scent he hadn’t the slightest whiff of in years. 

Melancholy washes over him as does nostalgia and he lets go.  

Hashirama is there to pick up his pieces. Pieces that never should have fallen apart, but there is only so much he can handle. Never again will this happen, but for now…

“My Love… I’ve missed you so,” Hashirama murmurs against his temple and he feels his arms squeeze, fingers clawing into the muscle of Hashirama’s shoulder.

He missed him too. So much.  

“I promise we’ll change it. Whatever you saw, it won’t happen. It wouldn’t be a dream if it ended in a nightmare, would it? Don’t take it all on yourself.”

Madara’s breathing becomes ragged. He doesn’t sob. Gods, never that, but his lungs rise and fall at an alarming rate. Hashirama’s hand on his back soothes him slightly, running up and down. Comforting. 

Would it really be okay? To accept this? The future, it’s—

No future is ever concrete.

The Uzumaki’s words reverberate within his memories and he buries himself deeper into Hashirama’s hold.

Izuna was alive.

Izuna was alive.  

“Okay.”

Maybe the rest can be erased, too.

*   *   *

When Hashirama’s wooden walls fall, he expects to find chaos. To find himself amidst another battle, but it’s surprisingly calm.

Still segregated, the Uchiha and Senju stare warily at one another but neither attack, seemingly waiting for their leaders’ command. 

Good.  

Hashirama stands in front of him, eyes brighter than he’s ever seen and smile wider than his most happiest days. His hand is warm and calloused from hard use from where they meet in the middle in a truce.

Flowers sprout, copious in amounts, at Hashirama’s feet.

“Anija—” Tobirama starts, voice full of disapproval and displeasure, but Hashirama doesn’t let him speak.

“The war is over!” The Senju calls, “The Uchiha and the Senju will no longer battle. Instead, we will form a village. A safe haven. A place of peace as declared by both I, Senju Hashirama and—”

“I, Uchiha Madara,” he replies. He lets Hashirama’s hand go in order to lift Izuna into a secured hold. Soft breaths caress his neck and he can’t express how relieved he is to feel them.

Then, in a lower voice, Hashirama directs his brother, “I’m going with Madara to make sure Izuna receives proper care. I’ll return later tonight.”

“Ani—”

“I’m not asking for your permission, Tobi.”

The albino’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. Anger radiates from him, but he seems to know his place and doesn’t refute.

“You’ll lead the Senju back and spread word. I’ll conduct a meeting with Madara.”

With what can be perceived as great pain, Tobirama nods before sending a venomous glare his way. The White Reaper turns mechanically, almost as if it hurts him to do so, and speeds away.

Hashirama looks back at him, hand coming to rest against his shoulder. 

“Shall we?”

With a nod, Madara leads him along the lengthy path to the Uchiha compound—a place where no Senju has ever stepped foot.

His clan falls behind him and he can feel their wary gazes, their questioning eyes and their confused looks, but he ignores them all as Izuna shifts in his arms, letting out the barest groan.

Alive.  

As they enter, Hashirama looks around with wide eyes, sparkling like that of a child exploring the unknown. He’s seen that look so many times before and it stirs within a sense of nostalgia. 

He almost gave it up. 

Did give it up. For years, because of his fear. How stupid.

He still fears, but Hashirama’s words were more comforting than he ever expected. Ever perceived they could be. He trusts Hashirama. Believes in him more than he should. More than he knew he ever could.

Would it be wrong to say it eases him? Having Hashirama know and say things can be different? Would it be wrong for him to believe?

Children run down the streets, giggling and playing. When they spot them, they smile wider only to have it fade at the sight of Hashirama.

The Senju, letting nothing get to him, smiles wider and waves. He’s nonplussed as the children scurry, sending them wary looks.

Many of the passing clan members do double takes, and many more pause and stare. He ignores them all, pace quickening. 

The compound is quiet when they finally reach it, and he settles Izuna in the room dedicated to the sick. Many of his clan members linger, and the healers flutter in. 

He raises a hand and everyone pauses except Hashirama as he settles next to Izuna, crossed-legged.

“Hashirama will take care of him. Leave us.”

Wary looks are exchanged again but they do as they’re told like good clansmen, fusuma shutting softly behind them. 

And like that, they’re alone again.

Silently, Madara gathers the medical materials and Hashirama goes about sewing and bandaging. 

“I could heal it all—”

“Izuna will not like that. The Uchiha carry our battle scars with pride. As long as he’s no longer in any danger of death, let him heal naturally.”

Hashirama stares at him a moment before nodding, applying ointment and wrappings. 

“He’ll be asleep for some time, I’d say,” Hashirama states, sitting back with a contemplative look. “But he’ll be fine.”

Madara swallows thickly as relief hits him once more. He would forever be eternally thankful to this Senju and forever in his debt.

A hand clasps his wrist from where it props up his leaning form, light and soft. Tension, ever so subtle, shifts between them, creeping in like the dawn of day. So subtle yet startling. 

His heart races.

“Madara, we should talk. Discuss this truce.”

He nods, blood rushing through his ears.

Of course. That’s logical. They need to play. To prepare—

The hand on his wrist squeezes and his breath catches.

 It’s been so long since he felt Hashirama’s touch. Felt his warmth and without the cloud of dismay pouring over him, he finds himself in—

A heated gaze, contrasting the words spoken, make him stand abruptly. 

One last look is shared before he’s turning on his heel and disappearing through the house. Izuna would be fine. It’s a relief, really.

He feels Hashirama closely behind, warmth persistently close.

His heart stutters.

The soft clack of fusuma doors signifies that they’ve finally made it to his room before hands wrap around his waist. Lips are on his before he can utter a syllable and his gasp stolen by Hashirama’s eager tongue.

He rests his hands on the other’s chest, cold plated armor under his hands. His fingers trail and tug, pulling at the strings keeping it together and Hashirama complies. He allows his armor, his only defense between them, fall to the floor with a thud. 

His hands drop back like magnets, unable to resist feeling muscle unfamiliar as Hashirama pulls him close.

“I’ve missed you,” Hashirama echoes his earlier words, kissing the corner of his mouth. His cheek and then his jaw. Trailing down his neck, his tongue laves heatedly. “My Love, how I’ve yearned for you.”

Another gasp tumbles from his throat unwillingly as teeth sink into the hollow of his neck and his head falls back, allowing Hashirama more access.

Hands grope him. They slide under his robes, caress his skin. Trail over his chest, fingernails scraping against sensitive flesh before sliding lower.

“Hashi—”

He’s cut off as Hashirama suddenly grasps his thighs, picking him up. He wraps himself around the other, arms around shoulders and legs around a sturdy waist. Hashirama takes his lips again and he savors the feeling, the memory, as he’s guided back.

His futon is softer than he remembers, fluffing around him as Hashirama lies them down. 

Desire that he’s beat down, that he’s forgotten flares to life hotly as his lover—a man, no longer a boy—nestles between his thighs, aligning their lengths. 

He does something unbecoming of the Uchiha patriarch, he spreads his legs and allows another man between them. Their lips never once disconnecting, spill secrets of longing and want with their movements.

An utter fool he is, for ever thinking he could give this up.

His hand disappears between them, sliding beneath Hashirama’s top and tugging it up, up, up—

The Senju pulls away briefly to comply, muscles flexing as he pulls the cloth away from his torso and tossing it before falling over him again. Lips meet his and a calloused hand squeezes his thigh, kneading it the way it would do all those years ago as if Hashirama couldn’t get enough of the feeling before hiking it up higher as he grinds himself down. 

Aching pleasure shoots through Madara and he groans softly, biting his lip to stifle it. He feels heat rise to his cheeks when Hashirama pulls back to stare down at him, brown eyes filled with so much heat he’ll burn.

“Don’t hide your voice from me. I want you to remind me what it sounds like.”

He glares half-heartedly up at the other, stubbornly biting his lip and stifling himself as Hashirama glides their lengths together again.

A teasing, challenged glint flares to life in the other’s eyes as he leans forward so their foreheads press together. A curtain of brown hair surrounds them.

“I will hear you, my Love. It’s been too long.”

His own spark of defiance flares to life and he pants silently, lifting himself up into Hashirama’s next slide forward. 

“I’d like to see you try,” he murmurs and Hashirama’s smile is viscous. 

His resolve doesn’t last long. 

“Fuck, ah—” he chokes, eyes squeezing shut and head falling back as a hot tongue laves the bite it placed in his throat mere moments ago. A hand on his erection squeezes, tugging sharply in a way he knows Hashirama’s made himself intimate with years ago. He feels himself on the edge dangerously fast and his face heats in shame.

Hashirama pulls back, eyes smug and he hisses.

“You didn’t—That wasn’t—You cheated.”

“But I didn’t, my Love. And your voice is just as breathtaking as I remember it.”

He turns his head away, reaching up to push the other away—only slightly. Not enough to signify a back off but an ease up.  

Hashirama listens without another word.

He points his finger, voice lodging in his throat. His face feels as if it will melt off with the burn of his flush. 

Silently, the man follows his gaze before a knowing glint flares to life and he leans up on his arms, reaching for what Madara was asking for.

Madara swallows thickly, his hand falling away and rising up instead to press against Hashirama’s defined chest. It was different from their teens. Rougher and harder. Sturdier. He can’t resist the urge to knead, to feel what was his. What always was and will forever be.

His Sharingan flare to life, capturing this moment forever so that even when his eyes fail him, he’ll still be able to see this within his mind.

Hashirama’s lips twitch with amusement, he thinks, but he’s not really paying attention. Not with the way his lover feels under his hands. The way his pectoral muscles move and flex with his movements.

Hashirama was truly so strong. The only person to ever go toe-to-toe with him. The only person on his level. Senju Hashirama was strong.  

Heat laces his stomach, swooping and filling him without a second thought.

Copper floods his mouth and only then does he realize he bit his lip hard enough to bleed.

His yukata, already rumpled and loose from their actions, slides open with ease as Hashirama’s hands tug at his obi. A hand splays down his waist, cupping his pec and thumbing his nipple as brown eyes observe in earnest. 

He fights the urge to hide. To cower away and cover his body—he will not back down. He won’t flee. He has more pride than that, so he allows himself to be ogled.

A pleased feeling fills him as Hashirama seems to get distracted. His pupils dilate and his mouth opens slightly in what Madara must admit is awe.  

Hands trail across his stomach, delving against his pelvis and caressing the wiry hair there. They squeeze his sides and then his hips. 

He bites his lip on another sound as Hashirama leans forward slightly, pushing himself closer as he watches his hands caress.

Mesmerized. The Senju is utterly mesmerized.

Madara flushes harder, refusing to make eye contact when brown eyes flicker up.

“You were… ethereal before, but now… My gods truly have blessed me.”

Crimson grows on him, he knows, and he scowls. A defensive reflex because the way Hashirama sounded—

A knot grows in his throat again and he feels his eyes stinging suspiciously so he cups his hand around the other’s neck and tugs him down. Their lips meet again, harsher than before and Madara tilts his hips—a silent signal.

Slick fingers meet his entrance the next moment and he tenses unwillingly. It has been… some time since something has been inside him. Not since the last time he and Hashirama coupled, many years ago.

Breath brushes his face on a sigh as it seems Hashirama realizes this too.

Tentatively, one slides in. 

His brow furrows and he pulls away to focus on the feeling as Hashirama stretches him. Lips press to his cheek again, trailing as Hashirama attempts to distract him against the foreign feeling inside him.

Soft suckles of his throat relax him some, falling back against the futon with more ease than before and Hashirama slides another finger in. They delve and they swirl, reaching for something long forgotten.

“Hashirama,” he moans before he can help it, legs falling open wider when Hashirama hits the spot inside him. Pleasure sparks at the lost feeling and Hashirama smiles against his neck.

“That’s it, my Love. That’s it,” a deep voice rumbles in his ear and his breath hitches. Another finger slides inside, slick and hot. They spread with a slight twinge but nothing he hadn’t felt before. 

“Okay,” he states, after a moment and Hashirama pulls himself up. He leans on an arm, peering down at Madara with a tentative look. “I’m ready.”

A few more seconds, a piercing stare, before, finally, a short nod.

Fingers leave him and Madara sighs, forcing his legs wider as Hashirama’s hand disappears between them. Anticipation builds the next moment as memories wash over him. The forgotten feeling of something inside him has been stirred and now a lingering want overcomes him. 

He wants Hashirama.

Brown eyes darken at the look on his face and he hides it in the blankets beneath them.

He feels the blunt tip first, knees falling further, and a slight pressure before—

The tip pops in and his head falls back. His voice can’t be contained as a soft noise flows from his throat and his hands fist the covers. It’s tight, Hashirama wide and piercing, but it felt as it has many times before. Amazing.  

Hashirama freezes above him, his breathing ragged as well, before ever so slightly his hips curl. They push and his length slides deeper just a bit. 

Madara bites his lip on another noise at the feeling of the man sliding into him and his hands come up to rest on Hashirama’s side. They tug slightly when the Senju’s steady pace never wavers. 

“More…” he whispers, forcing his eyes open so he can imprint this moment in his mind. “I can take it.”

Hashirama’s brow is beaded with sweat, brown eyes blown but concentrated. He stares between them, at the point of their connection, and Madara can’t resist teasing if only slightly as he raises his hips.

The man slips further inside and it punches a breath out of both of them when he finally comes flush.

“Madara…”

He nuzzles the hand that comes to cup his face, placing a soft kiss to the palm. 

“You can mo -ve.” His voice cracks as Hashirama slides back and pushes in again. Tentative, at first. Testing. They’ve grown so much within their time apart and now it was time to find what they’ve grown out of. 

Hashirama’s stamina sure has grown too, he notes as the pace picks up with ease, his breathing turning more ragged than the man’s above him who’s doing all the work.

He moans softly at the glide of Hashirama’s cock inside him. At the feeling of it spreading him deep within and cutting him open. 

Hips tilt experimentally and Madara keens, hand pressing against a muscled stomach as Hashirama repeatedly hits the spot inside him.

“Hashirama, oh gods, Hashirama,” he moans, unable to stifle anything. It felt amazing. Faster than anything he’s felt before, he feels his pleasure build.

I won’t last.  

His erection lies weeping against his stomach, slapping with the force of Hashirama’s movements and he can’t resist the urge to clasp it. 

Deep, panting breaths in his ear hike up his tension, coiling tightly within him like a snake as he matches his hand to the pace of Hashirama’s thrusts. It felt so good. Better than anything he ever remembers. 

The was Hashirama moves, the way his cock feels, all of it. Different yet not. 

He aches.

A particular thrust has Hashirama meeting his spoke once more, voice falling out of his throat before he can help it. 

Loud, he thinks vaguely, the gasp that leaves him. 

“Hashi—right there. Don’t stop. Right there—”  

He clasps himself lest he comes with the actions, but Hashirama’s hand on his own pulls it away. 

“Don’t,” Hashirama’s voice rumbles. “You can come.”

“But— fuck!”  

Hips press and press, determined and decisive. Precise. Harshly slamming against his own and he lets himself fall to Hashirama’s whims. Eyes closing unwillingly, his pleasure washes over him in waves. He tenses, body shaking with the force of his orgasm as he tightens himself around Hashirama harshly. Arms around a neck, legs around a waist. 

Heat pools on his stomach, flowing for eternity before his pleasure gives way to pain and he has to press a hand to the man’s abdomen to halt his movements.

Their panting breaths fill the room and he shifts uncomfortably at the feeling of Hashirama’s throbbing erection still inside him.

“You didn’t—”

His words are cut off as strong hands clasp his waist and they roll. Spreading his knees, he catches himself on Hashirama’s chest. Startled, he peers down at the man staring up at him with eyes full of heat and want.

Hands on his hips squeeze and caress and he understands what the other is asking.

Slowly, tentatively, he braces himself. 

“Are you—”

“Please,” Hashirama whispers, brown hair spreading across the futon in waves. “Show me what you look like riding me.”

Newfound arousal tries to spark and he forces himself to sigh and look put-off, but his hips rise nonetheless. 

Hashirama bites his lip harshly, eyes flickering across his body as if he were a prize. A painting or something special that needed to be committed to memory, and he lets the notion wash over him in a warm haze.

Slowly, he pulls himself up before letting gravity do its work. 

He falls and it punches a large breath of air out of the man below him, hands tightening dangerously on his hips. Everything is worth the look of unbridled pleasure that crosses Hashriama’s face.

It makes him twitch, arousal flaring again as he repeats the action. 

Hashirama helps, lifting him and slamming him back down again. The pace isn’t as fast as the one earlier but it’s just as needy. His thighs burn from the exertion but he doesn’t let himself quit. He is Uchiha Madara. He can take on the battlefield blind. Most certainly can he ride his lover to completion.

Tan skin whitens under the pressure of his fingers, digging in as he roots himself to the man below him.

“My Love,” Hashirama chokes as Madara falls back down again. “This is—You are— fuck.”  

Arousal courses through him at the curse. It’s not often that he hears the Senju curse—if ever actually—and it makes a need swell within him. 

He leans forth, black hair falling a curtain around them as he takes the man’s lips into a kiss. Tongues slide together as Hashirama pants harshly, voice creeping out slightly and something in Madara turns ravenous. 

He might… be able to understand the man’s incessant need to hear his voice now with the small whines he’s pulling from the other’s throat.

What would it sound like in his own ear as Hashirama pins him down?

He sits up, swallowing thickly. Hips tilt, swiveling as he tries to find the spot inside him he likes. His erection was hard again, bouncing with the force of his movements, but he ignored it in favor of the Senju.

Hashirama’s eyes have fallen shut, brow furrowed in a concentrated look as his lip resides between his teeth in a tight grip. 

Madara swivels again and the man’s mouth drops open ever so slightly in a gasp. He feels the throbbing erection harden further inside him and something akin to pride swells within him.

He made Hashirama look this way. No one else. 

“M–My Love,” Hashirama pants, brown eyes almost completely absolved by black open to stare up at him desperately. “I think—I’m not—I’m going to co—”

Madara leans forth once more, hands beside his lover’s head to catch himself as teeth sink into the man’s throat just as he slams himself down once more.

Hashirama tenses beneath him, hands on his hips gripping so tightly he vaguely hopes there will be proof tomorrow of their coupling. A groan resonates and Madara’s breath catches, hand flying to his own erection hastily as warmth fills him.

Hips jump up and he moans softly, burying his face in the man’s neck as his own release chases him for a second time. He tenses, body shaking slightly as his seed pools onto the other’s stomach.

When he’s done, he collapses, arms wrapping around Hashirama’s neck while the man’s wrap around his waist. Together, they roll to their sides, Madara hissing slightly when Hashirama slips free.

A kiss is placed to his lips, soft and chaste. Filled with so many emotions that Madara can’t help but reciprocate despite the tiredness creeping in. 

Today was quite packed. They fought a battle, Hashirama saved Izuna and now—

Fingers caress his face as Hashirama pulls away. He blinks his eyes open to find brown staring back at him, flickering across his features as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“What’s—”

“I love you.”

The breath stutters in his throat. Eyes wide, wider than they’ve ever been, stare at the man who just spoke the words they’ve never let fall between them. 

Until now.

Madara’s flusters.

“I—what—I—”

A finger on his lips quiets him. 

Hashirama neither looks flustered nor remorseful. Instead, he looks content.  

“It’s something I’ve known for… years, but I’ve never been able to speak them. We were enemies, we couldn’t be in love, but now…” Brown eyes flick up to his, shining with so much happiness that his throat swells. “Now we are not.”

He swallows around the knot and tries to force it away but it doesn’t. All he can do is stare, wide-eyed and shocked. 

It’s not new. No, never. They both knew, on some level, what the other felt. It was just… taboo. 

But, was it still? 

They were going to make a village.  

Finally. 

After all of Madara’s running.

Emotion creeps in and he forces his gaze away from such an open and honest one. 

“You don’t need to say anything in return,” Hashirama carries on and Madara’s incredulous gaze flickers back. The man looks sheepish now, flush coating his cheeks. “I was just merely—”

“Why are you not angry with me?”

Hashirama blinks, startled and Madara feels the frown forming on his own expression. 

“I– how can you still love me? After everything I’ve—” Fingers press against his lips and he quiets.

Hashirama looks serious now, gaze flickering between his eyes and his mouth.

“I… cannot say I know for certain the reasons for your actions, but… I know what you’ve told me and that’s enough. I would have waited millenia for you, Madara.”

His eyes fall shut, stinging again and he curses his weakness. 

This man. This was his weakness.

A soft hand caresses his face and exhaustion washes over him.

“Sleep. You’re tired and I am too. We can speak of this later, just… I wanted to tell you my feelings.”

He nuzzles the palm, leaning into it before he presses forth and buries himself in Hashirama’s embrace.

A reply. He should reply, but the words get stuck on his tongue. Glued and cemented, they refuse to come out.

I don’t deserve…  

Fingers card through his hair, so kind, so patient. 

If Hashirama feels wetness splash across his collar, he doesn’t speak of it. Instead, he pulls Madara deeper into his chest and Madara complies. 

Docile and yet—

He sleeps.

*   *   *

The sun wakes him.

Mind blank, his eyes flutter open. The ceiling, once so familiar, is blurry as it has been for some time. He lifts a hand, spreading his fingers, relieved he can still make them out despite…everything. 

His body is lax—more so than he’s ever felt and his mind is so rested.  

Movement next to him garners his attention and he tenses, head snapping over before he freezes. 

Hashirama. Senju Hashirama was asleep next to him.

Brown hair shining in the sunlight filtering in through the window above him, spread across pillows. A soft expression rests on the boy’s face—unguarded and so open. Just like him.

Madara stares. 

He can’t help it. Surely, this was a figment of his imagination. Another genjutsu. An illusion. It had to be because there was no way this man, this love of his life—

Hashirama shifts, brow furrowing and amazement washes over him. 

It wasn’t a dream. 

Tentatively, he reaches out, fingers caressing tan skin.

Hashirama was real.  

A knot forms in his throat and he can’t help but turn onto his side, observing the boy’s features. The same yet different. It’s been so long since he’s seen Hashirama this close. A fault of nobody but his own.

His heart aches. 

Memories flood his mind and his face heats. How long had they been there? It certainly couldn’t have been a day—the sun was flowing into his room that faces the west. Sunset, so it must have only been a few hours yet it was the best sleep he’s received… ever.

He feels pressure against his fingers and realizes Hashirama is nuzzling against him in his sleep. Something tugs at his lips—soft and helpless. 

He missed this. So much. Hashirama. 

Never have they woken up together—each of them far too paranoid to actually fall asleep during their meetings lest they oversleep, but… Madara’s always wished. Longed to do so and now he finally has.

He’s happy.  

I love you.  

And like that, his smile fades as Hashirama’s words echo in his mind. He didn’t say it back. After everything he’s put the man through, and he didn’t say it back.  

He tries to, mouth forming the word silently, but they don’t vocalize. Don’t leave his throat no matter how hard he tries. It’s nothing surprising. He knows why he can’t say them. 

Undeserving. 

That’s what he is. 

Of Hashirama’s love.

Of Hashirama’s affection. 

Of Hashirama.  

How can he tell the man he loves him when he doesn’t deserve him?

Fingers fall away and he rolls onto his back again to stare at the ceiling. So many things rush his mind. The last five years, the decisions he’s made, the consequences of his actions. He took so much from them that he knows he doesn’t deserve anything. 

But… his fear.

His clan.

Izuna.  

If they can truly change the future, the path they’re on, then… maybe he can find himself accepting his own happiness.

One day.

Thoughts of his brother have him sitting up, the sheet covering him falling to his lap. Unaware, he is, of the soft brown gaze that flickers open, observing him in turn. 

His yukata is still plastered beneath them, soiled certainly, and he sighs. His release crusts his stomach and Hashirama’s, his thighs. He needs a bath certainly—

An arm around his waist prevents him from leaving their little nest as he tries to stand and he freezes a second before relaxing. 

Tender kisses are pressed to his shoulder, soft and precise as Hashirama sits next to him, so close. A warm hand comes up to move his hair out of the way, allowing access to his neck.

He sighs, head tilting to give the man more room as the arm around his waist pulls him back into the other’s side.

“You were going to leave without saying anything, my Love?” are the words whispered against his ear.

He shudders.

“I—”

His voice catches as a tongue laves out, pressing against his lobe before teeth take the sensitive flesh between them.

Goosebumps alight.

“I…”

His head falls back, resting against Hashirama’s shoulders. Black eyes stare up and the Senju’s warm ones stare back, flickering with hazy amusement. 

Fingers press to his chin as it’s lifted a moment before the man’s lips are on his. He sighs, eyes falling shut as Hashirama’s tongue tentatively explores his mouth in a lazy kiss. Leisure, the pace is, as if they have nowhere to be and no one to see. 

Quietly, silently, he allows himself to be maneuvered. Allows Hashirama to press him under the sheets. To fall over him, brown hair cutting off the sun’s light as his hands come up to clasp the man’s face. Hips push his legs open and he allows that too.

Soft, he feels. And warm too. Content.

“Hashirama,” he whispers quietly as the man breaks away to suck at his neck. His fingers slide, combing through brown hair and tightening. It earns a stuttered breath from the other and satisfaction fills him. 

Hips press down on him, naked and bare within the confines of the blankets and he feels the beginnings of arousal stir within him. 

“I can’t—” he chokes off on another gasp as Hashirama’s teeth sink into the column of his throat, back arching with the pressure. He feels his cock twitch and forces himself to scowl at the smirk pressed against his neck before a warm tongue soothes the irritated skin. “I need to check on Izuna.”

Hashirama groans softly, letting more of his weight fall onto him. The man’s erection slips, sliding down against his entrance and his breath catches. Hands knead his sides, thumbs pressing against his hips in small circles. 

“Just once more,” a deep voice rumbles and a slick head prods his entrance—when did he even get the oil? “Just once.”

He opens his mouth to say no, of course we can’t, but all that comes out is a long, soft moan as Hashirama presses forth, tip popping inside.

“Right, my Love? It’s okay?”

He swallows thickly as arousal courses through him. His fingers tighten on Hashirama’s shoulders, nails sinking in. 

Instead of answering verbally, his hips tilt and Hashirama is forced further inside.

“Fuck,” the man growls and Madara shudders, breaths coming fast and choppy. 

It’s slow—their pace. Hashirama pulls out before sliding back in small, controlled thrusts and Madara melts. The building of their arousal is quiet but noticeable with the quiet, measured slap of skin and panting breaths. 

Hashirama rolls his hips, never pulling back far enough that their skin separates completely before he pushes back. Harshly and it forces quiet moans from Madara’s throat.

“Hashirama…”  

His hands find the man’s sides, pulling and tugging him in the direction he knows Madara likes. A smile is pressed to his neck before Hashirama leans up to capture his lips once more. His grip tightens as their tongues slide together, caressing and exploring.

Eventually, the man pulls away, planting his hands on either side of Madara’s hips and pressing forth with a renewed vigor. 

Madara’s pliant beneath his actions, allowing Hashirama to bring them to a mutual completion eagerly. 

“My Love… My Love—”  

Madara moans, sharp and high as Hashirama slams forth particularly hard on a thrust. He feels his arousal build and build. 

“Yes, Hashi— there—”  

He keens.

With controlled thrusts, Hashirama abuses his spots and just a little more—

A knock startles them, Hashirama pressing forth into a halt and Madara, panting as quietly as he can.

“W–What?” he calls out, voice laced with irritation as his hands rest on the other’s sides still.

“U–Um, Madara-Sama,” a voice replies that he vaguely realizes as one of the servants. “I–Izuna-Sama has awoken.”

His eyes widen and he sits up on his elbows, staring at the door. “Tell him— fuck!”  

Hashirama smirks against his throat again as his hips pull back and quickly press forth.

“Stop that,” he hisses lowly, biting his lip on the moan attempting to slip out. 

Breaths pant against his neck silently and he takes a moment, processing the movement inside of him before gathering his bearings.

“Madara-Sama?”

“Fuck,” he whispers, falling back and pulling a pillow over his face. “You’re so dead.”  

Hashirama puffs a laugh against him before his rhythm returns thrice fold. The barest sounds of slapping resound and he prays to the gods above that the servants can’t hear it.

He moans softly into the pillow before pulling it away and raising his voice, “Tell him I’ll be there sho- rt—”  

On a particular thrust, his voice cracks and his face is hidden once more. 

There’s no reply from the servant so he presumes she must have fled and lets himself fall back into pleasure. 

“What if she heard,” he hisses, tossing the pillow away and snagging the man by his long hair to get his attention.

Hashirama’s eyes flare with arousal and mirth as he leans down to take his lips once more. He turns his head, avoiding the kiss as his breath catches with a particular sensual roll of Hashirama’s hips.

“Oh, gods…”

“My Love,” Hashirama murmurs, pressing chaste kisses to his cheek. “My Love.” It's a moan. Undeniable, the sound as it pours from Hashirama’s throat, and Madara’s stomach swoops low.

“Oh gods.”  

He’s close, edging there and Hashirama is too. The pace picks up, faster than it’s been, and his breath stutters, voice keening.

The first to fall is him, tensing around Hashirama as he enjoys the pleasure that washes over him. His body shakes with the force and his eyes roll back. 

Vaguely, he’s aware of the sound of fusuma sliding, but doesn’t linger on it as Hashirama curses low and deep into his ear. Plant-life sprouts, moss climbs walls and flowers blossom across the tatami as heat fills him deep within. Hashirama trembles above him, face hiding in the crevice of his throat once more before teeth sink in.

“Aniki what are you—WHAT THE FUCK?!?”

Izuna’s voice startles him and Hashirama tenses. The man’s still releasing inside him, warm spurts lingering and mortification flows through Madara.

He barely glances over in time to see Izuna’s frozen back from where he seemingly turned away instinctively as he processed the sight. 

Hikaku is another presence, staring with wide eyes and a dropped jaw from behind his brother.

The last person is the servant he presumes he was previously speaking to. Her face is redder than any apple he’s ever seen and she’s avoiding looking in their direction at all.

Hashirama finally relaxes above him, through with his orgasm, and he shoves the man off. He slips out with a audible squelch and Izuna’s shoulders flinch before he bows over.

“Izun—”

“Shut up! Shut up, Aniki! I don’t—Oh, take my eyes. Hikaku-San, take my eyes immediately! And my ears for that matter!”

He glares as he sits up, Hashirama panting next to him slightly as he looks at the crowd they’ve amassed. His own body is flushed, still tingling with the aftershocks of his arousal but he quickly pushes it away.

“That’s why we knock,” he snarks, utterly mortified but thankful that at least they managed to keep the sheets on their lower halves through all that so at least Izuna didn’t see the Senju inside him.

Izuna turns, glaring and face scarlet. “Knocking?! Since when was it an issue of running in on you with Senju scum?!” His brother quickly turns around again, growling. “Ugh! Disgusting!”

Hikaku’s brows raise in a he’s got you there way and Madara scowls.

“Why are you even here,” he states, standing. 

The servant and Hikaku’s eyes widen, the former fleeing after a bow and the latter glancing off. He pays them no mind as he walks to his wardrobe and pulls on a new, clean yukata.

“I—FUCK, why are you naked?!”

He gives his brother a droll look, sending Hashirama a warning glare when snickers erupt. 

The Senju smiles, smug and relaxed, still lying in the futon. 

“Because, Izuna, this is my room.”

His brother looked enraged, torn between mortification and anger.

Honestly, Madara feels the same as he finalizes the ties of his obi. Especially when he feels liquid slide down his thighs.

Thank the gods I chose a winter yukata. It was longer than the summer ones, extending fully to his ankles. 

He sends Hashirama another glare just for the hell of it.

Izuna takes a breath, hand landing on his side as he gets momentarily lost in thought and Madara’s worry returns. 

“How are you feeling?”

Black eyes flick to him and scowl before it eventually softens some.

“…Fine. It aches, but—” Izuna flicks his gaze to Hashirama and it hardens again. “I’m not thanking a Senju.”

Hashirama sits up at that, an appeasing smile playing on his lips. “I never asked—”

“Hush!”

Hashirama, surprisingly, listens to Izuna’s flustered command.

Hikaku whistles softly.

Madara glares.

“Your—the White Reaper has been seen pacing our border for hours,” Izuna states, shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts.

Madara tenses immediately, back straightening. Threats like that—they don’t happen. Ever.

“Has he entered?”

Izuna’s gaze flicks his way and he shrugs before looking back at Hikaku who rightens as well, teasing glint leaving.

“No. He’s been pacing and staring, but thus far has made no moves of entry.”

He nods once, gaze flicking to Hashirama’s. 

“How long until he breaks?”

Brown eyes meet his. “I gave him an order, so never. He’s a good soldier.”

“But as a brother?”

Hashirama wilts, his fingers play with a daisy that sprouted near the futon. “Maybe an hour more, if that.”

“Leave.” It’s blunt and to the point, but Hashirama understands what he means without anything else.

Brown hair falls over a tan shoulder as the man nods, eyes smiling. 

He turns on his heel, Izuna’s glare following. 

“You’re not even going to explain?!”

He pauses in front of the youngest Uchiha, brow raised. “What’s there to explain? We have a truce now, per your request.”

Izuna’s eyes widen in disbelief. He pauses as if recalling before his flush deepens. Panic is the only word to describe his expression at this moment. 

“Th–that doesn’t explain why you were—why he was—you—inside—UGH!” Izuna runs a hand down his face, looking a bit green.

His poor little brother. So traumatized. 

“Call it a lapse in judgement,” he states, flicking his hand. The corner of his lips twitch at Hashirama’s offended squawk.

“That was not—”

“Anyway, I need to leave. The elders will not contend themselves. I need to speak to them of the truce.”

He turns away, ignoring Hikaku’s incredulous brow when Hashirama’s voice stops him.

“Madara.”

He halts in the threshold of the room, glancing back to see a vine handing Hashirama his strewn clothes. The man’s eyes are on him, however. 

“We need to discuss the truce further.” 

He nods, mind flickering through options. 

“We could always meet here,” Hashirama tries, sliding his shirt over his head. Another vine hands him his pants—why are they across the room…? Nevermind.

“The White Reaper is not allowed on my grounds until the truce is solidified,” he states, voice dark.

Hashirama winces, sighing. He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Figured.” He stands and Madara’s head tilts as the sheets fall away, eyes flickering down the Senju’s tan form. Damn. 

Fuck.  

Izuna lets out an eerie noise similar to a squeak and Hikaku whistles again. 

He turns his glare on the other two, but Izuna is already turned around. Hikaku isn’t, however, and when he catches Madara’s eye, forces his gaze away, chagrin.

“You’re utterly shameless,” he snaps, turning back just in time for Hashirama to fiddle with the tie of his pants.

“So you’ve said,” the Senju mutters, sending him a sickly sweet smile. “If you don’t want to conduct the meeting here, we can do it at my—”

“Never,” Izuna snarls, turning back. He glares something deadly and Madara sighs. “Do you think we’d be stupid enough to head into enemy territory—”

“Enough.”

Izuna’s mouth snaps shut and he shoots Madara a wounded stare.

He gives his brother a warning look that makes Izuna’s dark brows twitch, but ever dutiful, he doesn’t speak again.

“You remember our village?”

Hashirama brightens visibly, smiling wide. 

“Where we wanted to put it?” Madara adds.

The Senju steps forth, flowers sprouting with the move and Madara gives a dull glance around his quarters. Gods, it was going to take forever to get the plant life to leave.

“Of course! Are you thinking—”

“Meet me there. Tomorrow at noon. Bring only two people as your entourage and I’ll do the same.”

More flowers blossom and Hashirama vibrates with his excitement. It looks as if the man was barely refraining from storming over and taking him in his arms once again.

Madara bites back a flush, doing a horrible job at it if the way Hikaku’s teasing glint is anything to go by before he turns on his heel.

“Get your brother away from my lands, Hashirama. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I–ah–-Yes! See you soon, my Love!”

His flush deepens, gaze flicking toward his cousin. 

“Hikaku, show him the way out and don’t let him get killed.” 

His Sharingan flash and Hikaku pales, nodding hastily.

“Yes, of course, Madara-Sama.”

He raises a brow at the title but doesn’t comment as he leaves. 

Izuna falls into step next to him quickly, disapproval leaving him in waves. They walk in silence for some ways before his brother finally caves.

“Are we really going to build a village together? Us and the Senju?”

Quietly, he slides on his sandals in the genkan before stepping onto the stone path. The sunset glares something bright and his eyes ache.

“Yes.”

Izuna doesn’t refute, jaw flexing.

“Are you angry?” he asks.

Black eyes flick over and there’s a warring expression in Izuna’s gaze.

“You were the one who offered,” he adds.

“I know,” Izuna snaps, looking as if he’s cursing himself internally. “I just—” His little brother sighs harshly, shoulders slumping. “I’m not… angry. At you. Myself, perhaps, but… you’ve always wanted this, haven’t you? You never stopped no matter what it looked like. Never let that Senju go.”

He processes the words a moment before dread sweeps into his stomach, hot and heavy. 

“What are you—”

Izuna refuses to meet his gaze. “So we’ll build a village together, Aniki. I won’t… trust them. I can’t, but… I think we could live peacefully. If you’re there.”

Stunned, he is. How different this Izuna is from the one who snarled against Hashirama’s previous offer of peace. 

Utterly different. 

He can’t stem the urge to pause and pull Izuna into his arms. 

His brother returns the embrace and he sighs. 

“Thank you,” he speaks sincerely.

Izuna buries his face in his neck, dark hair tickling as he shakes his head. “You have nothing to thank me for.” His brother pulls back, face serious. “Just be happy, okay?”

He blinks, startled before another knot forms in his throat. Emotions swell in his gaze, making it sting and he looks away. He nods.

“I will.”

Izuna looks pained but smiles nonetheless. “I know.”

*   *   *

The elders aren’t happy with him, but, quite frankly, he doesn’t care.

“They’re Senju!” one elder seethes, a name Madara can’t remember for he was quite insignificant. 

“Precisely,” he states, voice calm but insides seething. They always doubt him no matter what he does. One would have figured with his previous years leading, they wouldn’t, but alas. “Make a village with them and no one would dare to target it.”

Iori, one of the few elders he doesn’t wish to smite constantly, speaks up, voice casting through the room.

“I, for one, am in agreement with Madra’s plan.”

Many heads turn the old woman’s way and she regards them all with a hardened look.

“Are you all not tired of fighting?” Iori continues, leaning forward. “Peace will be possible with our clans’ combined strengths.”

Another, Tsuyoshi speaks up. “Likewise, if the fighting should stop, where would that leave us?”

“I agree,” Ryouta pipes in. “What will be left of the Uchiha, but humiliation?”

“I don’t particularly care for your input,” Madara cuts off the brewing argument before it can flower. The elders grumble amongst themselves, shooting him glares that he ignores. “I am merely here out of respect to inform you of my decision. We will build a village with the Senju, the peace has already been struck. However you make peace with that is up to you.”

“Aniki,” Izuna hisses, glaring.

He stares back, searching his brother’s gaze before clenching his jaw. Of course Izuna wants to play nice. 

“I merely strive for peace,” he concedes, gaze flickering about. He takes a breath, bracing himself. “This village will be able to achieve just that. Think of it, a world where children don’t have to take up arms. Your children. Grandchildren. Instead, they’ll be allowed to be just that. Young and carefree. No dying prematurely. None slaughtered due to the harshness of war. In order to strive in life, we must first think of the future, and the youth are just that. Not only, but being allied with the Senju would warn off any others who threatened us. We will not be humiliated for there will be nothing lost. We will keep our pride as the Uchiha but likewise no longer will we be slaves to the discourse spewing across the lands.”

He huffs, crossing his arms and avoids the look of approval his brother sends him.

“See?” Izuna offers up. “What more could you want?”

“A pipe dream,” one elder snarls.

“A possibility,” another corrects, eyes gleaming with interest. 

Murmurs erupt as the small council go back and forth. Disagreements are argued and consensus is inevitably met.

“Very well, Madara. You may have your peace,” Tsuyoshi speaks for the rest and Madara nods, biting back a retort.

I would have taken it whether you approved or not but—  

“Your acceptance is gracious,” he snarls after Izuna sharply elbows his ribs.

Amusement lights in a few elders' eyes while resignation in others. He turns on his heel before they can continue further, Izuna following closely behind, and the doors swing shut without a second thought.

*   *   *

The next day brings with it an excitement he hasn’t felt in some time. He’s up with the sun, fidgeting anxiously through breakfast, and wearying on Izuna’s last nerve by the time it comes for departure. 

Hikaku is the third in his escort, with of course, Izuna as the second. They say goodbye to the people who see them before they flit off into the trees just as the sun casts close to the center of the sky.

“Where are we going?” Izuna asks, branches blinking past in a blur.

“Somewhere… special,” is all he replies, mind flying with memories. His body leads them on their own to that spot so unique. 

Feet landing with a soft click against stones, he stares. He can’t help it. The waterfall was there, as it will forever be and behind it—

A knot swells in his throat once more. He was having a lot of those emotions recently, wasn’t he? 

Not once in all these years has he returned lest his resolve be swayed and he’s kept to it. 

Until now. 

Izuna’s voice calls again and he shakes himself from his reverie, flicking into the woods once more for the real reason he came here. 

Towards the end there, their scrolls became too plentiful, too massive for one person, so they divided them. He hopes, silently, that Hashirama will bring his share as he now hunts for the ones he’s hidden away.

Retracting his steps of a long forgotten past, he finds the tree—ordinary and typical. Not a branch out of place to signal that it’s been tampered with before.

The traps in place fall with ease—a beacon of his immature days before his mastery was fine-tuned and he quickly grabs the sack within.

“What’s that?” Izuna asks. 

He clutches the familiar cloth between his hands. “Our future.”

Izuna asks nothing else as he leads them toward their final destination. 

“They could have set up a trap,” is his brother’s cautious voice as they land on the mountain’s cliff. 

He stares down at the vast forest below, melancholy filling him.

“They won’t have,” he states and his tone of voice leaves no room for argument. 

He jumps down, the other two quickly following as they scale the steep ridge.

There’s a wooden building, something that certainly wasn’t there before, and a smile twitches his lips. Of course Hashirama would make accommodations for this day. 

The chakra signatures make themselves known before Madara comes even close to the building—two familiar and one not. Good. At least Hashirama listened to his orders.

The door slams open before he can touch it and a wide smiling Hashirama presents himself.

“Madara!”

He blinks, startled a moment before he blanks his face. “Eager are we?”

The Senju’s smile widens. 

“Are you kidding?! This is the best day ever!”

A field of flowers sprout immediately with the exclamation and Hashirama doesn’t so much as blink an eye.

He feels his face heat as he pushes the older man aside, dipping into their new, temporary peace quarters.

Tobirama’s red eyes glare back at him, suspicious and irritated.

A pair of brown eyes belonging to a woman accompany him, curious and open instead of the hatred Tobirama exudes. Different, for the eyes of a Senju. He notes her with interest.

The bag in his hands lands on the only table present, and he relaxes when he sees a similar one present.

The door shuts and Hashirama is by his side instantly.

“Good, you brought it! I didn’t know if you would or not. I thought maybe you’d forgotten. All’s well. Anyway, what—”

“Hashirama.”

“Yes?”

“You’re rambling.”

That tan face flushes as he takes a step back. The Senju’s body is still vibrating with pent-up energy as he rocks back on his heels. 

“Sorry, I’m just—this is so exciting!”

Madara forces his gaze away, taking an empty chair across from the other two Senju.

Everyone else tenses when Hashirama plops down beside him—too close for a diplomatic meeting. However, he pays it no mind as he hides his hands in the sleeves of his yukata.

“Anija, I don’t think—”

“You’re too close, Senju, stay on your side—”

“Hashirama,” sighs the woman.

Hikaku, like a good boy, remains silent.

Hashirama waves the comments away, leaning forward to pluck their bags. He spills the contents onto the table, paper, brushes, and ink go rolling.

“You guys can look these over. We’ve already made plans for the village. The only thing I want to talk about today is placement.” 

The Senju and the Uchiha stare befuddled at the miscellaneous items and Madara stifles an amused snort. 

Hashirama plucks something from his armor, ignoring the way Izuna and Hikaku tense before unrolling it across the long table. He pins it with four kunai, collecting a brush and ink in seconds.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” the Senju mutters, handing the writing material to Madara without a second thought, eyes focused on the paper.

A map, Madara realizes as he takes it in. Of their future village. 

His fingers wrap around the proffered brush, amusement lighting him along with sorrow at how easily Hashirama falls into their routine—Madara writing while the Senju speaks. 

Chairs scoot closer and their thighs press as Hashirama’s brow furrows with concentration. 

“Back off—”

“Izuna,” he states, glancing up. “It’s fine.”

His brother’s jaw clenches and he sighs through his nose before he harshly plucks a scroll from the table and unfurls it. Disapproval shines clearly in his actions and Madara represses his own weary sigh. 

He glances back down at the papyrus in front of him just in time to see Hashirama’s fingers trail against it.

“I think we should build our compounds here, on either side of the main road. There would be a gate, surrounding our village, along the borders of the Forest of Death.”

Madara hums, dipping his brush in ink and making Hashirama’s idea come to life before them. 

“We must also think of the market. A village can’t function without merchants.”

“What about other clans,” he murmurs, eyes flicking across the board. 

Hashirama leans forward, fingers caressing the forest to the right. “The Nara reside here. If anyone joins first, it will most likely be them. They have a connection to the nature and the deer. With them will come the Yamanaka and Akimichi.”

“Do you want to choose where they live or let them choose for themselves?”

Hashirama’s finger trails his lower lip as he ponders. 

“We could always work around. Leave plots of land for incoming clans,” he offers, and Hashirama hums.

“But the gate. We need to know how far out to expand it.”

Madara levels him with a stare. “You’re a Mokuton user. If need be, we can always tear it down and build another.”

Brown eyes blink before they light up. “You’re right!”

He rolls his own. “I know.” 

Impervious to the stares he can feel being shot their way, he complies with Hashirama’s words, adding his own opinions when needed as they’ve always done. 

They settle for the building they’re in to be the leadership stronghold. They place the school nearby, giving it the highest priority of protection should a conflict arise. The hospital and the archives are appropriately positioned and the training grounds are given priority. 

Content with their accomplishments, he looks up, meeting his brother’s gaze. 

Izuna stares at him with an unreadable expression, and glancing to the side, he sees the White Reaper with a similar look. The other two, however, stare, amazed. 

“What?”

Izuna blinks and scowls, looking away.

Tobirama glares. 

Hikaku leans forward as if to tell a secret. “You guys work… surprisingly well together.”

Heat fuses his cheeks while Hashirama laughs loud and proud. 

“Ah, thank you! You see, we’ve been—”

Madara’s hand in his stomach halts the confession before it can cross. Confused brown eyes glance at him and he glares. 

They can’t know!  

The Senju’s brow twitches. Well, why not?

Are you stupid?!  

Hashirama’s mouth opens and Madara sighs.

“Don’t answer that.”

The other’s jaw clicks shut and he runs a hand through his black hair. Years, Hashirama was already aging him years before anything concrete had even been construed. 

“It’s not like they won’t find— ow!”  

He pulls his hand from the other’s stomach and clasps his collar, pulling him forward. 

“It. Was still. Treason,” he seethes silently, but has no doubt the others heard him quite clearly.

Hikaku’s brows shoot up and the woman blinks, startled. 

Their brothers glare, mirroring expressions. 

Brown eyes widen and he pushes the other away with a huff.

“What was treason?” the woman speaks up and his gaze flickers her way. Her expression was hard and blank, but he could see the suspicion shining in her gaze.

Hashirama sends him a look, an apology, and he flicks his fingers. 

Whatever.  

“You’re cleaning up the mess.”

A flush crosses that tan face as Hashirama sheepishly rubs his nose. 

“Uh, Touka, you see, Madara and I… Well, for some time now… These scrolls, we made them over the years.” 

The woman—Touka’s brows raise at the admission, gaze flicking back to the papyrus in front of her. 

Hikaku glances back too, blinking.

Izuna’s jaw clenches and Madara eyes the action.

“You knew,” he states in realization.

Black eyes flick up and away, arms crossing over his chest. 

His mind races. How did his brother know? For how long? And what?  

“Izuna—”

“Enough, Aniki. Later.”

His mouth clicks closed at Izuna’s irritated snarl and his eyes narrow. 

Izuna sighs, sensing his mistake immediately and bowing his head. “I apologize for my tone. We’ll discuss this later.”

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps, feeling his own temper rising. It wasn’t often that he found himself angry with Izuna. Uncanny, really, the emotion is but when it strikes, it strikes hot.

Izuna scowls at his lap.

“However, fine. We will discuss this later.”

Izuna nods and Madara lets the subject drop.

Silence ticks on until Hashirama disrupts it with a light-hearted laugh. 

“My, my, such tempers.”

His temple throbs.

“Despite everything, our dealings,” Hashirama emphasizes, grabbing a scroll and unfurling it. “Lead us to our village. Whatever squabble should happen, there should be a scroll for it. We… tried to cover our bases.”

Touka and Hikaku each pick up their own scrolls, unwinding them and reading. 

“This will be the basis for our village,” Hashirama carries on. “The foundation we’ll build on. We made… most of these before either one of us was truly leaders. I’m sure there are things that need to be tweaked but…”

“It’s a start,” Madara finishes. He places the brush in his hand down, the ink drying on the papyrus in front of him. 

Hashirama’s eyes shine as he nods. “It’s a start.”

Their brothers scowl.

*   *   *

They part ways with the promise of meeting again in one week’s time for the official amalgamation of their clans. 

Hashirama walked away with plant-life sprouting with his steps and Madara with his eyes on his brother.

Hikaku, smartly, lingered some ways back to give the two of them some privacy.

“So… you knew,” he states after a brief period of silence.

Izuna doesn’t even glance at him as he nods.

“How?”

Shoulders tense. Pondering, his little brother seems to be, for the right answers. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he steels himself before he turns.

Hard black eyes meet his, steps never faltering and chin held high. 

“You were… quite subtle, I must admit. Your infatuation with someone unknown. No one besides me ever saw how you changed. I was curious, I must admit. Whoever could hold your attention for that long, they must’ve been special, but I knew you never would have told me if I asked. You were very clear in your actions that you wanted to keep it a secret, so I… followed you one night.”

His feet stop as his stomach sinks. 

Izuna pauses too, refusing to look at him.

Wind brushes, leaves rustle and dread fills him.

“I didn’t mean to hear it. I just—I wanted to know, you know? You’re my older brother, my Nii-San, I just—I wanted to make sure you weren’t with anyone suspicious, you know.”  Izuna does turn to him then, anger shining in his gaze alongside regret. “I just never expected to see you with a Senju.” Red dusts the other’s cheeks and Madara’s when he realizes what Izuna must have seen and heard.

“I—”

“I was so angry at you. So betrayed. Even after all this time and you were still seeing him. I… I didn’t know what to do. There was— he was—I was irate and I… almost told Father,” Izuna admits quietly, as if ashamed, eyes on the ground.

Cold fear eats him despite this being a recalling of the past. He stares, eyes wide.

Their father.  

Izuna almost told their father. He—

He’s going to be sick.

“But I didn’t!” Izuna rushes when he glances up and sees Madara’s expression. He takes a step toward him before halting when Madara takes one away. “I didn’t,” he repeats softer. “I couldn’t.”  

“Why?” he struggles out.

Izuna looks at the ground. 

“I… already did that once, and the results… Besides, there was—” the boy cuts off, eyes glassing in a memory before he shakes himself from it. “I decided to watch you instead. I never—never followed you again, but I watched you at the compound and during our battles. You never once showed any remorse or hesitance. I knew that if you ever struck him in battle, it would be to kill.”

He releases a breath, relaxing marginally. 

“Then I thought that maybe it was a passing infatuation. A crush, nothing more, but… that battle happened and you—your Mangekyou was unlocked. I caused you to unlock it because even though I knew you two were like that, I still tried to kill him. Almost did.” Izuna swallows and his eyes fall to the ground between them. “I was so angry at you for loving him. So infuriated that I didn’t even question your disappearance. When Father said you were sick, I was relieved.”  

His eyes sting at his brother’s admission, spoken so softly. Guiltily. 

“I lied for you, so I thought Father dropped the idea that you unlocked it for—for him, but me instead and I didn’t even think to question it.”

Izuna’s voice was wet now, remorse seeping from the pores. 

Madara doesn’t know how to feel as his brother meets his gaze again, remorse and regret so strong in that gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Aniki. It’s my fault—”

“No, it’s not,” he cuts off, voice rough. It’s his turn for his gaze to fall. “You were… right to be angry with me. He was the enemy. It’s my own fault all of this happ—”

“No,” Izuna rushes, stepping forward to clasp his hands. Black eyes peer into him, stern and hard. “No, you didn’t deserve any of that, no matter what. It’s not like you committed any crimes—”

“I told him about our attack,” Madara cuts off, staring impassively at his brother’s flinch. “I told him we’d attack.”

Izuna looks pale at that, swallowing thickly. He’s quiet a moment, mind racing, but his hands never leave Madara’s.

“You… You were in love—”

“Don’t defend me!”  

Black eyes blaze with anger. “Well, why not?! Why do you insist on being the bad guy?!”

“Because if I hadn’t told him—”

“It would have been slaughter,” Izuna snarls, hands squeezing his, “Even I didn’t approve of such a cowardly attack. If we were to ever defeat the Senju, it should have been on proper terms. Not an ambush. You were—you were right on that.” The words sound sour on Izuna’s tongue, face scowling, but they are surprisingly… sincere. 

Izuna huffs and his grip relaxes. 

“I don’t—I’m not mad at you, Aniki. I… understand your reasoning. I just—you’ve been through so much. I won’t say I like him, I don’t even trust him, but—he makes you happy. I haven’t see you smile like you did back there in years. Years. I think you deserve a little bit of that in your life, don’t you?”

Out of everything he was expecting this conversation to lead to, Izuna’s approval was not one of them. Arguments? Yes. Anger? Definitely. Acceptance? Fuck no. 

He stares, eyes stinging and emotions soaring as his brother gives him a small, shy smile.

“Besides, if he ever does anything to hurt you, the better excuse to kill him,” Izuna snarks, wrist flicking and like that, a smile tugs at his lips.

He can’t resist the urge to pull Izuna into his arms. His brother complies stiffly, surprised before he relaxes, arms wrapping around him. 

“Thank you, Izuna,” he whispers, placing a kiss against black hair.

“You don’t need to thank me. Just… don’t let this blow up in our face, yeah?”

He laughs wetly—the closest he’ll get to crying in front of anyone, Hashirama excluded, ever and Izuna nuzzles his chin.

“I love you, Nii-San.”

“I love you too, Izuna.”

And maybe, just maybe, things will be alright now.

Chapter Text

We can plant a memory garden...

—The Great War, Taylor Swift

Their village flourishes. 

Blossoming from the ground up, buildings sprout like flowers bursting out from the harsh winter into the spring. Due to his Mokuton, the buildings germinate with relative ease, causing the swift blooming to finish in little time. It thrives.  

Never before has he experienced such satisfaction as he does now, walking down the newly minted main road from the gates all the way to the leadership tower in the center. Passing by new outlets, shops, and stores, the scent of dango fills the air and he briefly wonders if it’s from a Senju’s stall or an Uchiha’s before giddiness fills it because it doesn’t matter. They were one now.

There are still many things they have yet to do—name a leader, speak to the Daimyo—but word has spread. Soon, everyone will know of this union of the Uchiha and the Senju.

He’s utterly ecstatic. 

Madara walks beside him, hands tucked into the dark yukata he always wears, eyes focused just as his, flickering from building to building with a hint of awe in his gaze. 

Hashirama takes a few moments to commit the sight to memory—Madara. His hair now falls past his knees, still so unruly and lively, but it covers his eyes now. Well, one, still unable to hide the eyebags the man’s amassed over years of stress and anxiety. 

Lovely, he thinks, the sight of them. Anything about Madara was lovely, really. Beautiful still. Ethereal. That certainly hasn’t changed no matter the time that’s amassed.

A child trips up ahead, a small girl no older than seven. She lands on the ground with a cry and Madara’s brushing past him before he can even think to help.

Amazed and enthralled, he watches his lover kneel before the girl, quietly asking if she is okay.

She must be a Senju because she startles at his sight, cowering back and he steps forth. A flower bursts from the ground and he plucks it, intending to give it to the child in order to ease her from crying when a gaggle of kids come flying down the road.

“Madara-Sama!” a small, black-haired boy screams and Madara barely has time to turn before the boy crashes into his chest.

Hashirama stares, heart racing and smile twitching.

Madara makes a noise, an ‘ack’ that he would never admit to, before he returns the boy’s embrace. 

“Kagami, what are you doing?”

The other children, all of the same dark hair and pale skin, surround the leader. 

The poor Senju girl flinches away slightly, but the other children don’t appear to notice.

“We were running and we were playing and I just wanted to know—to know if you’d play with us? Izuna-Nii says he’s busy,” the boy—Kagami pouts, hands fisting in the collar of Madara’s yukata.

Madara sighs, put out but there’s a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“Unfortunately, I am busy too. Hashirama and I have things to attend to at the moment.”

Madara motions to him and the children’s attention turns, black eyes of varying shades land on him. 

He smiles, finally approaching and sprouting a few more flowers.

The children eye him warily while the Senju girl sidles close to him, hands fisting in his robes.

“Hello there,” he murmurs, squatting. 

Kagami’s eyes narrow and his grip on Madara tightens.

“What plans do you have with Madara-Sama?”

“Kaga—”

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, plucking another daisy from the ground. He holds it up in front of the boy who blinks at it before flushing. “I was about to show him one of my new summons.”

Madara’s head snaps his way because that certainly was not what they were going to do and his lips twitch at the sight.

Kagami brightens, instantly appearing in front of him. He takes the flower as he looks at Madara with wide eyes.

“Can we come too?! Can we?! Can we?!”

The other children join in and even the Senju girl peeks out, eyes filled with curiosity.

“I—well—”

Hashirama stares, amazed, as Uchiha Madara appears to be at a loss for words.

Kagami gasps as if he had a sudden revelation. “Can we see your Susano’o too?!” 

Madara flinches back, a subtle gesture and one Hashirama narrows on immediately. Uncomfortable would be the word to describe the Uchiha’s expression the next moment before he blinks it away.

“Unfortunately, we’re not doing any of that. We have different things to attend to, but…” Eyes flick his way and a devilish glare flares to life. “Maybe Hashirama can show you his summon later?”

Kagami bounces on his heels while the other children shout their excitement. The next moment, the Uchiha child is in front of him, grabbing his sleeves. 

“You gotta show us, okay? You promise?”

A wide smile blossoms on his features as he nods. “Of course. Just warning you, it’s quite massive.”

That makes the children happier as they vibrate with untamed energy.

“Okay!”

Madara stands and Hashirama follows, remembering the girl at his side just as the other children notice.

“Who’re you?”

The girl lets out a little ‘eep’ before she slides behind Hashirama once more. 

Kagami’s eyes narrow. “Scared, huh?” 

One of the other children leans forth and whispers something in Kagami’s ear, making the boy’s eyes light up. He steps forward, offering the daisy.

“Do you wanna play with us?”

The girl peeks out, eyes widening at the sight of the flower. It’s a few seconds before her full body comes out as she tentatively takes the blossom. 

“Thanks,” is her shy reply.

“We’re going to play capture the Senju. You can be it since you’re a Senju.”

Hashirama’s brows raise, glancing at Madara who shrugs. 

“That’s not fair! I’ll never catch you! Uchiha’s are so fast!”

Immediately, the tribe of children brighten as one of the girls present darts out and takes her hand.

“It’s okay, I’ll help you. I’m Hana, by the way,” the Uchiha murmurs, dragging the Senju away quickly.

“Hell yeah,” Kagami calls, chasing after them. “We are fast, huh! What else do you know about us?!”

“I’m Biwako,” is the last thing Hashirama hears before the children disappear down the street. 

He stares for a while, processing what he’s seen. His smile widens as he turns to the other.

“They’re getting along better than expected.”

“They’re children. Their innocence knows no bounds.”

“Exactly. The future is looking bright, wouldn’t you say?”

A dark eye rolls and Madara starts off again.

Hashirama is quick to follow, falling into line with him.

It’s quite a pleasant day, if a little cool. With the approaching autumn, the summer season was winding down with an astounding finish. 

They walk silently to their destination—the mountain they once found years ago. He has a few things he needs to address and Madara was the only one with the answers. The scene, it was perfect, if not a bit sentimental, but that’s who Hashirama is.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he murmurs, hair fluttering with a breeze as his gaze is cast toward their flourishing village below. 

A leaf floats by, garnering Madara’s attention. He reaches out and plucks it from the air, fast as a viper. 

“Hn.”

“You know, we never named our leader. What they’d be called,” he starts, eyes flickering to his lover as he observes the green bud between his fingers.

“I was thinking, it’ll be a leader who protects the Land of Fire from the shadows. A fire shadow, a Hokage. What do you think?”

Pale fingers trace ridges, before holding the leaf up toward the sun. There’s a hole in the middle and Hashirama briefly wonders how Madara can stand the harsh light shining through it when the man glances at him.

“I think it… fits.”

Hashirama smiles. “We’ll have to meet with the Daiymo soon to officially establish our village, and we’ll need to select a head for that.”

Madara flinches, just barely, as his gaze casts away. “I see.”

Hashirama ponders the reaction, brow furrowing slightly before brushing it away. They’ve talked about this before, after all. It’s not like the suggestion is new.

“I want you to be that. Remember? The Hokage.”

Madara doesn’t look at him. Barely breathes, it would seem as the silence ticks on.

Confusion becomes him, this wasn’t a reaction he anticipated. 

“Mada—”

“I can’t be Hokage,” the man eventually murmurs, glancing down at the cavern below. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

Exasperation becomes him. “Of course you do—”

“No,” Madara cuts off, turning to look at him finally. Eyes full of sincere self-loathing stare back. “I really don’t. I kept this from you for years. It’s my fault—”

He steps forth, unable to stop his hand from cupping a pale cheek. 

This was a topic they had yet to breach—the past. Everything happened so swiftly, and he was just so happy, it didn’t even cross his mind until this moment. Truthfully, he would be fine leaving things be but he knows Madara and he knows how it will eat him alive if things aren’t discussed.

“Explain it to me, then. Everything that happened when you were away from me. What made you think I could ever kill you?”

Black eyes waver, flicking toward the ground but he doesn’t pull away and Hashirama notes that with a small smile.

“It’s not… pleasant.”

His thumb caresses soft skin, skimming just below the other’s black eye. 

Madara blinks and leans into the touch.

“I… My father, he… took my… eyes. When I unlocked the Mangekyou.”

The name is something unfamiliar to him but a quick flashing of red lets him know what it is before they fade away. Words register next and his hand drops away.

His father—Uchiha Tajima… took Madara’s eyes?

Took them?  

Fury resonates in him something strong. More powerful than he’s ever felt before and Madara’s eyes widen as he takes an instinctual step back. A fissure erupts beneath his feet, cracking the mountain below and he tempers himself just as fast.

He takes a deep breath, holding it as he does his best to reign in his flaring chakra but it’s futile. He just— Madara’s eyes. They stole his eyes.  

An Uchiha he is not, but he understands to some extent how sacred their eyes are. The meaning of them and how beautiful they can be, so to learn that Madara had his stolen while he was—he just—

“Hashirama.”

Fingers clasping the robes at his waist bring him back and he blinks, staring down at a dark, furrowed brow. 

He exhales.

“I’m—sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—please continue.”

A singular, unhidden black eye flickers back and forth from his own but the Uchiha doesn’t retreat. Instead, he steps closer and Hashirama can feel the heat of the other’s body.

“He was very angry with me. Thought that you’d somehow controlled me but…” A dark head shakes and fingers tighten in cloth. “It doesn’t matter. Eventually, he came to understand you didn’t after everything he tried to do. I—”

“‘Tried to do’?” he asks, emotions warring within him.

Madara glances away. “Unimportant—”

“My Love, what did he do to you?”

The first hint of reaction flares to life in dark eyes as they fall to the ground. A horrid weariness fills his gaze—a terror he hadn’t thought Madara ever capable of feeling and his stomach sinks.

His hands raise up, clasping onto Madara’s and lacing their fingers.

“My Love…”

Madara steps closer, forehead falling to his shoulder.

“He… he weakened me. Isolated me. For months. I was blind and alone. And then, he showed up with… someone. I still don’t know who. They… put me in genjutsu. Over and over again.”

Hashirama swallows the words, tempering his flaring chakra before it can extend into the valley below. The last thing he needs is his brother or Madara’s flying up, expecting war when there was nothing but an already-fought battle.

He seethes, however, an emotion he is not quite accustomed to. Never this much… anger.

He’s angry at Tajima for ever doing such a thing.

He’s angry with the Uchiha for allowing it.

He’s angry with himself.  

He realizes then, that he could have done something. If he hadn’t cared so much about politics and instead followed his heart, Madara never would have gone through that. It could have been stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to croak, hands squeezing the other’s. Brown eyes dart away as Madara pulls back to look up at him.

“Sorry?” Confused, Madara sounds.

Hashirama forces a nod. “It’s my fault.”

“What?”  

His eyes fall shut. “I… wanted to look for you. So desperately I wanted to look for you but I was held back. By my clan, by my duties. Politics. I couldn’t storm the Uchiha compound without war erupting so I kept away. If I didn’t—”

“Then many countless lives would have been lost,” Madara snarls, dropping one of his hands to reach up and cup his neck, forcing their gazes together. “Hashirama, out of all people, it most certainly isn’t your fault. If anyone’s, it’s mine.”

“Madara—”

“No, it is. Father saw my Mangekyou and he knew it was for you. Even after the lies Izuna tried to strew, he still somehow knew. The genjutsu, the isolation, it was to try and sway my loyalties from—from you and I never wavered. Not until—”

The Uchiha’s breath catches and his eyes flick away.

Hashirama’s tongue is thick in his mouth, making it hard to swallow. The words, he knows Madara didn’t mean them as they sound but they were still just as damning.

“So it is my fault. If you—if we— if things didn’t happen between us, then you never would’ve gone through that.” Agony runs through him like a sear. “You never would’ve been tortured.”  

“I don’t regret it,” Madara snaps, squeezing his neck to regain his attention. “If I could go back, I’d change nothing.” The Uchiha pauses, eyes flicking away guiltily. “Well, nothing between us. I’d change running away. That’s— I’m sorry.”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for—”

“I do!” Madara snaps, glaring up at him before his eyes soften. “I do,” he repeats.

Hashirama sighs, glancing at the sky.

“But it’s not your fault,” Madara states after a brief period of silence. His voice is thick with emotion and his eyes are so full of sincerity that it makes Hashirama’s throat knot. “I loved you and if that’s a sin, I’ll renounce any god.”

Hashirama stops breathing and Madara freezes a beat later as he seems to finally realize his words.

He stares as his heart speeds, beating like a bird in his chest, trying to flutter into the blue sky above.

Madara goes to pull away, to retreat but his hands clasp the other’s tighter. 

The words—they’re one he knows. Known for quite some time. For years in that cave. They’re the only reason he held hope, and never gave up despite how everything was unfolding. He knows what he felt that day, that immense feeling of love that washed over him leaving him so overwhelmed that he couldn’t fathom how Madara could possibly function while feeling what he felt.

He doesn’t speak, having learned long ago how Madara tends to spook with sound so he uses his body instead. A hand rises to cup the man’s cheek while the other wraps around his lower back. He pulls the Uchiha flush to him while his fingers press dark strands away from a pale face—paler than it’s ever been.

Madara is scared, he realizes. Scared of the words he spoke but not for Hashirama’s reaction. No, he’s fearful of something else.

He kisses Madara then. Slow and soft, he presses all the emotions he wishes to speak into the leisure motion of their lips. Every regret, every longing, his lips caress and his hands embrace.

Madara’s mouth opens and he pulls back before it can delve into something deeper—something more heated for they still have things to discuss.

“I… ache for you,” he whispers brokenly, pressing delicate kisses to the man’s pale cheeks reddened with emotion. “I adore you, worship you. You… are my god, Madara. My deity. You have been for quite some time. I know my… emotions can never even fathom the level at which you feel, but… just know that you are everything to me despite all else.”

Madara looks away, emotions swirling to life, turning that black gaze red. Intricate in pattern, Hashirama stares. It’s a Sharingan he has yet to acquaint himself intimately with, after all. Nothing like he has within the throws of battle.

Tentative fingers on the Uchiha’s chin turn him back and Hashirama gazes, enraptured. 

He can’t help it. 

If he thought the Sharigan beautiful before…

He can’t resist trailing the underside of them as he’s done so many times before, freezing when he realizes how triggering it could be but Madara—

Madara doesn’t even flinch. The thought, the trauma doesn’t even appear to cross his mind as he leans into the touch, eyes falling shut briefly before flickering open to allow him another look.

This—this love, it overwhelms him and at first, he thinks Madara is allowing him to feel it again before he realizes it’s his love. His adoration for the man standing in front of him.

“I am… still so very sorry, Madara,” he whispers, brown gaze staring into red.

Madara’s brow furrows and he presses a finger against the other’s lips before they can open.

“Regardless of everything, it is still the fact that you— we were together that made you—that got you tortured, and for that, I will forever try to redeem myself to you.”

“Hashi—”

“No, you can’t change my mind on this, so don’t waste your breath. Just… don’t run from me again, okay? That’s all I ask.”

Red fades to black and Madara looks away.

“That’s… not even all of it,” the Uchiha mutters, leaning forward to hide his face in Hashirama’s neck. “There’s… so much more.”

His fingers rake black hair, softer than he remembers and his heart aches.  

“Tell me, my Love.”

A kiss, soft and chaste is placed against his collar and he nuzzles the man’s temple in return.

“The genjutsus never worked, so they tried something else. The person with Father, he… showed me something. The… future. He showed me the future.”

A deep groove makes itself prevalent in his brow but he doesn’t interrupt as Madara presses closer, warm breath brushing his skin as he inhales deeply.

“It was… so horrible. So dreadful. Horrifying. I—The first thing he showed me was Izuna’s death. He died in that battle, the last one we fought. Your brother killed him because instead of asking to be healed, he told me not to trust you and we fled. He… died. My little brother died.”

He tightens his arms around the other and Madara takes a deep breath.

The knowledge… doesn’t surprise him but it does frighten him. Without a doubt, he believes Madara. Whole-heartedly even if he can’t fathom the possibility—even if it really doesn’t exist. Madara believes it so he will too. That’s just how it is.

“The person, they allowed me to regain my strength before he allowed me to see and it wasn’t a genjutsu. It was the future and it was already horrible. The next thing he showed me was our village. We made it like we wanted, but Izuna wasn’t there. You asked me to be Hokage and your brother disapproved. Said our eyes were fueled by hatred when that’s not even remotely true. He spoke of the people and how they don’t trust me. How I’d never be chosen but that doesn’t bother me. I didn’t care about that, not really. Leadership doesn’t call to me like it does you. I know I’d never be as good.”

Protests are on the tip of his tongue but Madara doesn’t give him a chance, swiftly changing the subject.

“The next thing I was shown was us. My clan—they didn’t trust me. I was leaving and we were arguing. I asked you—insinuated you had to choose between me and your brother. The answer was obvious, because of course it is, so I left.”

Hashirama swallows his emotions at the words—the implications. He knew Tobirama’s hatred for the Uchiha was strong, but he had hoped it would change now that they’d come together.

Perhaps he was wrong.

Madara grips the front of his robes tightly, breathing harshly.

“You killed me.”

The words stop him cold as they did that day not even three full weeks ago and his mouth dries. 

He could never fathom the fact that he could kill Madara. Never truly, so to think… A future with such a possibility is…

“A sword through my back,” is Madara’s choked admission. He buries himself further into Hashirama’s embrace. 

Why would he do that? Why, when Hashirama killed him?

“You said—you said you were going to protect your village be it a brother, a lover, or even your own child. The village was more important and then you left me there in that river. Our river.”

He feels tears well in his eyes, denials flying through his head but it doesn’t matter because it did happen. How could he ever do that? How?  

“The last thing,” Madara murmurs, lips falling the his collarbone, resting softly. “My clan. It looked like it would be many years from now but… It was ordered—the slaughtering of them. By a child no less. One of our own! No older than thirteen and an Uchiha. Told to kill his family by the village itself. How could—how could that be the legacy we leave?”

He tightens his grip on the other as horror washes over him. 

That’s nothing they ever wanted. Nothing he ever wanted. That wasn’t a village, that was Hell, so how did it end up that way?

Silence encases them as his thoughts race. Possibilities to be construed, and actions needing to be implemented. How could their legacy end up like that?  

“Madara,” he states after a while, his voice deep with emotion but deathly serious. “Madara, I promise you that it will not end up that way. Be it my own life that needs to be taken, your clan won’t be destroyed. You will live and Izuna—”

“Izuna’s alive,” Madara states, pulling back to look him in the eye once more. “Because of you, Izuna is alive. The future is already changing. Izuna was the one to ask for the ceasefire when he should have been the one to tell me not to trust you. You asked to heal him when in the other reality, the words never crossed your mouth. It’s already changing, I just… was so scared. For so long.” Black eyes fall away, ashamed, and Hashirama swallows.

“A fear that is clearly warranted,” he murmurs, clasping a chin and lifting until their gazes meet again. “I don’t blame you, Madara. I still forgive you.”

Black eyes shine but they don’t water. Don’t tear up, because Uchiha Madara doesn’t cry, but… it’s a close thing.

“My Love… you have been through so much. How… can you possibly look at me?”

“It wasn’t… you,” Madara whispers, eyes falling to his chin. “I’ve come to… understand that. I don’t think this you could ever do something like that.”

Still… Hashirama doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for what he was just told. For Madara to die is a tragedy. A nightmare not strewn from his night demons, but by his own hand?  

It’ll haunt him forever.

Madara’s words about the already changing future ease him some. Perhaps, if he put his heart into it, everything will change.

He’ll make certain of it. 

“I vow to change your future. On my life, I promise you.”

“You don’t—”

He presses his hand softly to the other’s mouth, shaking his head.

“I do.”

Black eyes stare and he never wavers. Eventually, Madara nods and his hand falls away.

“Thank you,” are the whispered words.

He kisses him softly. An expression filled with emotions that he simply cannot verbalize for they were too much. 

A breeze brushes past, steady and stronger than the others. 

They part, gazes connected. 

“My L—”

“I still can’t be Hokage.”

His brows furrow, hand coming up to flutter across a pink cheek. 

“Madara—”

Dark hair shakes, eyes hard with determination. 

“I can’t Hashirama. Even if I wanted it, I can’t. You’re the better candidate. You never gave up, not once. You deserve to lead this village.”

“We’ve already discussed this.”

“Years ago before either of us knew what it was like to rule.” Madara looks away then, swallowing thickly. “I…”

“There’s no one else but you,” he stresses. Madara was perfect. He knows it. No one else could protect this village better than an Uchiha. “Please—”

“No, Hashirama.”

His teeth click as his mouth shuts. Used to, he was, with Madara’s hard tone, but usually it was with stupid things. Things he thought were genius, but, in reality, never were.

“Leaving aside… everything else, you deserve it. I don’t even want it and if you make me take it, I’ll—I’ll–-be so mad at you,” Madara mutters, face flushing at the rather foolish comeback. 

It brings a smile to his lips despite everything, a light laugh tumbling out. 

“Mad at me? Is that all?”

Madara glares, eyes flashing red but pays it no mind, swooping in to press a kiss to the other’s cheek.

“I’ll have you know, I hold grudges.”

“I know you do, my Love. I know you do.”

Madara huffs, turning his head away from another kiss and Hashirama pouts.

“I… suppose I can’t have that, can I? My Love can’t be angry at me. What will I do?”

Madara glances back, assessing his face before a soft smile lights his features. 

He’s not giving up. Gods, no, Madara’s perfect, but… he’ll have to be cunning about it, is all. Yes, yes, cunning. 

If only he was.

Still, he thinks he can ponder it for a while, but for now—

“If you don’t want the hat, will you at least name it? The village.”

A single black eye twitches, the other hidden behind dark hair. A hand raises and within it, a leaf. The same one from earlier.

Madara holds it up, peering through it once more but instead of at the sky, it’s toward their home.

“What about… Konoha? Konohagakure?”

“Village hidden in the leaves?” he mutters. The next moment, a doom cloud befalls him even as he feels a laugh bubbling. “How… unoriginal.”

Madara turns to him, ire flashing in his gaze. “If you don’t like it, you choose!”

He straightens, laughing and Madara’s lips twitch as well. A hand darts out, clasping Madara’s as he intends to pull the boy close once more when Tobirama’s voice cuts through the moment.

“There you are! What are you doing?! The Daimyo will be here any moment!”

Hashirama’s immediately chaste under his brother’s anger, turning with a nervous smile. 

Tobirama glares at them from a distance, head free of gear and his white strands just as unruly as an Uchiha’s. Red eyes narrow as Hashirama steps forth.

“Ahahaha, you see—”

“Don’t care. Get down there now! If you make him wait, Anija, I swear to the gods above…”

Madara mumbles something under his breath but when Hashirama turns to face him, the other’s expression is blank. 

“Shall we?”

Madara blinks, focusing on him finally and a soft smile splays his features. He takes Hashirama’s offered hand.

*   *   *

The Daimyo is a round man, short and pink. A life of luxury and wealth oozes from his pores and his ignorance of battle is obvious. 

Despite it all, Hashirama finds him to be a delightful man.

Laughs echos off the building—the Hokage building. His cheeks are flush, the alcohol reddening them splendidly and he ignores the three pairs of eyes glaring disapproval his way.

“And—and, who is this again,” the man, Hiroshi Hayashi chortles as he motions his sake glass toward Madara. 

The Uchiha barely refrains a sneer as liquid sloshes over the rim and Hashirama leans forward, cutting the diamyo off lest Madara snap back.

“This is my partner Uchiha Madara, leader of the Uchiha clan.”

Light eyes widen in astonishment, as if Hashirama hadn’t previously introduced them. He had.

“Is that so? I heard the Uchiha are quite powerful.”

Hashirama tilts his head in a nod as he lifts his sakazuki cup in agreement before tossing it back. It’s supposed to burn but he barely notices it as it slides down his throat like butter. 

He could get used to that feeling.

“They are,” he states, placing his cup down. “The only clan to go head to head with my own. ‘S the reason we’re gonna make a village.”

The Daimyo laughs again and Hashirama feels himself following.

“Yes, yes, speaking of. Have you chosen a leader?” 

Noticing the man’s glass empty, Hashirama picks up the bottle and pours it full one more. Knowing eyes wink at him and he snickers as the man repeats his actions to his own cup.

“Uh, yes. We’ll hold a vote of the people with Madara and I,” he mutters, ignoring the way Madara’s head snaps his way as he lifts his glass to take a sip.

Their brothers reside across the table, both of them glaring at him but one gaze softens slightly at his words.

“What—” Madara starts.

Pudgy cheeks widen as the Daimyo smiles. “What a wonderful idea! The people will surely feel loved if you give them power.”

“I know, right?” he crows, leaning toward the man and away from Madara’s lingering glare. “That’s how we want our village to be.”

“Then I suppose we should probably get to business, no?”

Hashirama sobers instantly, nodding with a serious expression. 

The Daimyo mirrors him, cups clacking against the wooden table as they place them down in unison.

Their eyes connect and—

Raucous laughter breaks out and the other three sigh in irritation. 

“Enough out of you,” Madara snarls, taking the sake bottle as the Daimyo’s hand heads for it.

The man pouts—and odd look on such a round face and Hashirama finds himself dissolved to laughter once more. 

One look from Madara sobers him, however, shuts him right up.

“How utterly terrifying,” the Daimyo mutters and Hashirama nods so fast that he dizzies. 

“Oh, I know, but you have to love him anyway,” he snickers, earning a quirked brow of the other.

“Anija!”  

He flinches at Tobirama’s anger, sweat beading his brow. 

“What? Gods be, what’s wrong?”

There’s a visible vein throbbing against Tobirama’s temple as he seethes, “Take note of your words used during political discussions.”

Madara’s hand lands on his thigh beneath the table, squeezing threateningly. 

“Yes. Do be careful,” the Uchiha mutters through clenched teeth and all teasing notes leave Hashirama.

The Daimyo chortles, loud and raucous. “Oh, how I remember my days of youth! That’s too bad, though. I was going to offer my daughter’s hand in marriage, but it appears it’ll be pointless.”

Unaware of the other gazes on him, he turns, eyes shutting in a smile.

“Yes, unfortunately, a political marriage is off the table. A contract on the other hand…”

“Yes, yes,” the Daimyo states, waving a hand in the air. In mere seconds, one of his servants place a stack of papers on the table in front of them. “A contract.”

Hashirama raises a brow, glancing down at the mass in front of him.

“Care to wager a bet?”

He turns his head, brown hair falling off of his shoulder and his eyes gleam with interest. “What kind of bet?”

The Daimyo laughs again, stomach bouncing in its effort to get enough air for the action. 

“If we manage to get to an agreement in a hour, I’ll buy us all the alcohol until we are in the ground.”

“And for I?”

“If it takes not even a moment longer, you shall pay.”

The hint of a gamble is addicting as Hashirama accepts immediately. “Of course!”

Madara sighs, irritated, their brothers look resigned, and if the Daimyo’s eyes shine, who is he to say?

*   *   *

“What is your village’s name?”

“We’ve settled on Konoha. Konohagakure.”

“Excellent. You wish to establish a village for what purpose?”

“Peace. We have fought far too long. If the Senju and Uchiha combine, we will surely be one of, if not the, strongest nation.”

The Daimyo seems to like that as his eyes sparkle with interest.

“If you are powerful, people will not invade.” 

Hashirama’s head inclines. “Precisily.”

Pleased, the Daimyo nods his acceptance. “Now we should discuss the tax revenue.”

Madara perks up at that, hard eyes watching intently. 

“What are you suggesting?” he asks.

“Seventy percent.”

Hashirama shows no visible reaction—he thinks—but he doesn’t like those odds. 

“A bit unfair, don’t we say?”

The Daimyo smiles an intelligent smile. One filled with knowledge and experience. 

“Perfectly acceptable for a village your size.”

“We are but two clans at the moment.”

“More certainly are to be on the way.”

Hashirama has nothing to say to that. “Thirty percent,” he barters instead, stifling a smile unsuccessfuly when the Daimyo’s eyes bug out of his head. 

“Thirty?! My boy, do you know how things work?”

Hashirama raises a shoulder, smiling sweetly. “We are shinobi. Once this village is established, you are certainly going to expect us to be it’s first line of defense in case anyone tries to pressure the Land of Fire. I think it’s a proper amount.”

The Daimyo’s eyes narrow slightly. “Fifty percent and no lower.

“Fourty and no higher.”  

“Fourty-five.”

“Thirty-five.”

A vein throbs in the man’s temple and Madara stifles a snicker.

“Fine, fourty! Have it your way.”

“Unfortunatly, I’ve changed my mind. Thirty-five is what I require.”

The man’s jaw drops as his face reddens significantly. 

“That’s too low!”

Hashirama smiles the smiles he gives the elders when they’re being ornery. “I can’t do anymore, I’m afraid.”

“You—”

“If you think it too much, we can always go to the Land of Wind. I hear the desert is good for defense. I’m sure the Daimyo there would love to have the two strongest clans—”

“Fine! Fine, have it your way! Thirty-five and no lower!”  

Satisfied, Hashirama leans back and hides his hands in his sleeves. 

The Daimyo is pouting, snatching the sake bottle from its position in front of Madara with a glare. Instead of pouring himself a glass, however, he downs the rest of the bottle.

A hand slides onto his thigh, clasping as Madara leans in close to whisper, “Good job.” He sounds impressed. 

Hashirama can’t resist the smile that lights up his face.

*   *   *

His pigheadedness leads them into overtime, meaning he loses the bet. 

Tragic, really, because boy can the daimyo throw back the alcohol despite already being quite intoxicated. 

He’s not even certain as to how he makes it back but when he wakes up next to Madara’s unruly mop, he has an inkling. Amusing, it is, to think about how Madara most certainly had to fight Tobirama away. His brother glaring, his lover smiling mockingly as tensions rise.

Perhaps… it was better he missed it, after all.

Now, a week later, one full month since the birth of Konoha, he thinks things are coming along splendidly. 

As predicted, the Nara have sent word of interest quickly followed by the Yamanaka and Akimichi. If things go well, not only will they have three very powerful clans joining, but their village will expand immensely. 

Rumors have spread, sending the other countries into a tizzy. It appears that they started a revolution—an end of the Warring States as shinobi villages are construed left and right.

He’s curious, he must admit, about how many clans will seek refuge with them. About how big their village will get, how powerful. It’s what they’ve wanted—he and Madara—a place to protect their kin, their people. Children, and it’s becoming reality quickly. 

He’s ecstatic. 

Darkness swamps the night, and the yellow glow of a candle lights his room as he flutters about. A flower sprouts, and he flushes, plucking it away as he hastily adorns his robes.

He was going to seek Madara tonight and he must first wait for Tobirama to fall asleep. Not that he’s not allowed to see his lover, but… better to save him a headache and a lecture by waiting his brother out than to make his plans known. 

Tobirama’s disproval has been made obvious with words and looks, but Hashirama paid them no mind. Why should he? Tobirama’s known of his involvement with Madara for years, apparently, and never once ratted him out as he did once before.

Why, that is the question. When he pestered, Tobirama clamed up. Never gave a concrete answer, and truthfully, Hashirama didn’t need one. The action itself was enough. It warmed him, and he knows that despite whatever speech his brother gives, whatever glare he shoots or snide remark he makes, Tobirama won’t stop him and his love despite what he may feel for the Uchiha.

Is it wrong that the fact makes him happy? 

Proof of Tobirama’s own love is what it is. His cold brother, always defending himself with a wall or a stubborn glare. If Hashirama ever spoke of it, Tobirama surely would react with anger—a defense mechanism, it seems. Picked up during a time where loss was all they knew—but it still made him ecstatic. 

Approval, in a form. If only just slightly. That’s what it feels like even if Tobirama masked it as helplessness, as a ‘nothing you can do about it’ facade. Hashirama feels as if he knows that’s what it is. Tobirama was his little brother. No one better to read him than the older.

He brushes his thoughts away, smiling to himself as he plucks another flower from the tatami. He rolls it through his fingers, observing. A hydrangea, blue as the sky and pale. His smile softens.

Turning away, he prepares to carry on with his nightly activities when there’s suddenly a presence at his back. The cool metal of a kunai is pressed to his throat, tempting and warning, and only the sense of familiar chakra keeps him from lashing out.

“Izuna…” he murmurs, surprised. This, certainly, was a meeting he hadn’t expected.

The boy behind him is tense as a hand slides through his hair, rooting itself and him to their position.

“What do I owe the pleasure?”

Silence.

The candle flickers from an incoming breeze through a cracked window, their heartbeats the only accompanying sound. 

The boy is nervous. He can tell by the rushing blood echoeing ever so softly throughout the room.

He’s not, for he knows Izuna wouldn’t truly hurt him. Not unless he did something to Madara first, which, well, never.  

“Izu—”

“Silence!” is the croaked word.

The kunai at his throat trembles slightly—either in fear of Hashirama’s retaliation or for the realization of the action itself—and it pierces him, just slightly. Warm blood trickles, and he doesn’t move.

“You…” Izuna starts, pressing the blade further as the hand in his hair tugs. He follows through, tilting his head slightly. “You have so much control.” Whispered, the words linger filled with a bitterness he never expected.

Puzzled, he stays silent. He’s not certain what caused this… intervention, but he knows it must have been eating the boy for some time. Never has he met Izuna personally outside of battle, but even so, he can tell the boy’s been… down recently. He thought it was because of their village, the union with the Senju, because it’s no secret that Izuna and Tobirama were identical in their thinking if only opposites.

But perhaps he was wrong.

“I am only going to say this once, Senju,” Izuna states after another baited breath, voice much more level than previous. Hard and determined. “So you better listen well. We Uchiha are… consumed by our emotions. When we feel, we feel powerfully. When we love…” 

The Uchiha trails off and Hashirama has an idea as to where this is going. Warmth rushes him as he realizes just how much Izuna loves Madara—enough to rival his, it seems.

“We love harshly. Aniki, for whatever reason, has decided to love you of all people and… there is nothing I can do to stop it. It’s done. He will be loyal to you until the end of days, and if you ever do something to betray that loyalty or become undeserving of his love, he won’t be there to stop you. I will.”

Hashirama believes. 

The kunai digs further as his head is yanked back until it can no longer be pulled. Izuna is shorter than him by a bit so it’s quite uncomfortable, but then again, this entire situation isn’t supposed to be pleasant. He hears the threat, understands it, and accepts. 

“You might be stronger than me, but I am much faster than you ever will be. Even if my life is taken in the process, if you hurt Aniki after he’s given his everything to you, I will take your life as well, no matter the cost. You may have merely heard the rumors of genjutsu, considering Aniki was the one you’ve only ever been up against, but cross me, and I will show you the true power of the Sharingan. Years you will spend in horror of killing everyone you ever loved when in reality it will merely be seconds. Decades you will spend taking your brothers’ lives, your mother’s before you’re stripped of your flesh and your bones broken until there’s nothing of the mighty and powerful Senju Hashirama left. Do you understand?”

He swallows, the barest hint of fear slithering inside him. 

Truth, Izuna’s words are. He knows, and despite never, ever having the intention of betraying Madara as such, he is… he can sometimes be stupid. Inevitably, he will hurt Madara and he knows Izuna’s going to be there to make him pay the repercussions.

Terrifying, the littlest Uchiha is, but Izuna doesn’t need to know that.

“Yes,” he replies, keeping his voice steady as he can. If it wavers, who can tell?

Izuna’s silent a moment before the kunai retracts, and his hair is freed. He turns, preparing to speak earnestly his desires for Madara and his well-being but the closing fusuma are the only things he sees.

Clack.  

The candle flickers out with the gust of wind left by the Uchiha’s retreat.

He stares, unable to help it. This he… certainly wasn’t expecting, but perhaps he should have. Loyal, the Uchiha were, to a fault. It would only make sense for someone like Izuna, who adores his brother greatly ensure Madara’s heart’s safety. 

Understanding he is of this interaction. He’s been wondering why Izuna hasn’t made as much fuss as Tobirama when it came to his and Madara’s intimacies. Izuna’s been quiet, rather resigned but now it makes sense. Especially if he knew nothing could be done about Madara’s emotions.

Hashirama ponders many things for some time when a crash is heard outside his room. Investigating, he steps out and stares at Tobirama’s closed fusuma across from him, the cracks darkened with night.

“Tobi, are you okay?”

Silence tickles by, and his worry shifts to his brother. Perhaps he should have simply looked instead of calling. What if it was an intruder? He’s not much of a sensor. Stepping forth, he’s about to slide the doors open when Tobirama finally replies.

“I—I’m fine, Anija. I just knocked over a lantern.”

Hahsirama stares, but his mind is far off. Studying, his brother must have been. Always studying. New jutsu, old jutsu, and everything in between. 

He sighs.

“Fine, just go to bed at a reasonable hour, okay?”

He gets no reply, nor is he really expecting one. Retreating, he runs a hand through his hair as he stares at his futon.

Perhaps he should just sleep here tonight. Izuna probably wouldn’t take his presence lightly after everything, and well—

But Madara was waiting for him. They’ve already made plans. He couldn’t disappoint. 

Dark brown eyes flicker toward the window and back toward his fusuma. If he left through the house, Tobirama would hear, and only the gods knew how long his brother will be awake.

He looks back at the glass, biting his lip.

Childish, it is, but… He’s walking over before he thinks better of it.

Sneaking out is as easy as it’s always been. The ground is close by and the grass soft. The only issue is that his geta are in the genkan, leaving him barefoot but oh well. He can always soften his path with plants.

Hilarious, it is, that he’s still sneaking out at twenty-four years, and he bites back a smile as he disappears into the night.

*   *   *

Izuna is brighter after that interaction. It seems the things that have been eating him have eased somewhat, and Hashirama finds himself observing a boy he’s never truly come to know.

Much like Madara he is with his temper and his actions, however also different. He speaks his mind freely and targets Tobirama more often than naught, fearless of the repercussions.

Amusing it is, to watch Tobirama be at a loss for words for once in his life. Utterly amusing.  

Their first meeting takes place a week later. The first true congregation and it’s to interview the Nara head, Shikako.

As the only clan heads, he and Madara make up the council. Their clan heirs are also present as they sit in a small room within the Hokage quarters. The Nara head and her delegation sit in front of them stoically.

Shikako is a woman, dark hair, dark eyes. Intelligent, she reads, and old. Surprising for the era. Not too many wrinkles but the graying of her roots signifies wisdom unfound for the time. An elder, she would be in any other clan.

Excited he is, even allowing his brother to force upon him the Hokage hat even if he wasn’t Hokage—Madara might have also been an influence, but oh well.

“You are the leader of this village?”

“Well—”

“Yes,” Madara cuts off.

Hashirama huffs, emotions never waning. “Impromptu, temporary. Just until we can organize a vote.”

The Nara head seems to like his words as her brows rise. “You’re going to let your people vote?”

“Of course,” he leans forward, the big, stupid, red and white bill falling into his eyes. He barely refrains from throwing it across the room. It would be unbecoming of a leader in any form. “The Hokage is supposed to be the most powerful shinobi of our village and how else to determine that but hold a vote amongst the people? Besides, this is a place of peace and freedom, not a dictatorship or sovereignty.”

Knowing eyes flick to him and then to Madara. She says nothing, but he can see her mind whirling. 

Tobirama shifts next to him, uncomfortable for some reason. 

“You’re in an intimate relationship with the Uchiha.”

A statement, not a question.

“Well, yes—”

Tobirama leans forth, glaring. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Shikako smiles wittingly. “If the Senju are intimate with the Uchiha, that leads to a power imbalance for any incoming clans.”

Hashirama supposes that is true. Never really thinking about it, but… then again, this village wouldn’t have been constructed if not for the intimate relationship between him and Madara.

Well, perhaps in another life, it could have been, but not without many trial and errors, he doesn’t think.

“Contrary to whatever beliefs you may hold,” Hashirama states with an eye-closing smile. “We have a legislation in place for our village, founded on the intimacies of the Uchiha and the Senju, that gives equal power to everyone. If you join, you will be part of our council where the major vote wins. With you, you bring the Yamanaka and Akimichi—two clans loyal to the Nara, meaning we will be outnumbered—Madara and I—if we don’t agree on something. Despite knowing this, we still wish to accept you, for we believe in your power as a clan and your wish for peace. That is why there is a screening system in place. We need to know if we can trust you, and likewise, you need to know if you can trust us. If our ideals are aligned, you will join; if they are not, you will leave. You must respect both the Uchiha and the Senju, just as we must respect you in return. If you believe us to be incompetent for our private relations, then I suppose this is not the village for you.”

Shikako’s face is blank, but her eyes observing. She contemplates something for a brief period of time, eyes flicking between him and Madara before she appears to come to a conclusion, a smile lighting her features.

“You most certainly don’t live up to the rumors, Hashirama-Sama. I heard you were quite the incompetent.”

The sting rolls off his shoulders with ease. He knows the words whispered through his clans and many others. That he’s head because he’s strong. That he’s the leader because he can defend. 

Contrary to everyone’s beliefs, he may be an idiot, but he can be competent at times. Especially having learned alongside Madara in those caves many years ago. Truthfully, the boy next to him was the one to make him like this—always querying, always questioning Hashirama’s reasons, his beliefs. 

It’s one of the many reasons he believes Madara should be Hokage.

If only the man himself agreed.

He smiles, serene and accepting while Madara shifts next to him.

“It is truly surprising that a Nara would choose to listen to speculation considering the rumors of your matriarchal turn. Women of your clan are supposed to be in the house, no? Raising babes and providing support off the battlefield?” 

Briefly stunned, he turns to Madara who glares across the table.

Shikako’s smile twitches, stretching into something vicious as she looks at the Uchiha clan head.

“Aniki,” Izuna hisses from Madara’s side, glaring. “That was out of li—”

“Rumors have also been spread about your ascension into power. You took the head of your father by your own sword, no? How should we know you won’t do the same here?”

The Uchiha beside him tense, and he too follows, eyes falling on the woman in front of them.

“Okay, enough of that,” he interjects as both Izuna and Madara’s mouths open.

“She has a point, Anija,” Tobirama adds, earning a glare from him. “How are we to know?”

“Tobi—”

“I don’t want the spot,” Madara snarls, leaning forth. Ire he hasn’t seen in quite some time is prevalent, making everyone present tense.

Before thinking better of it, his hand finds the Uchiha’s thigh, squeezing.

Madara freezes a moment before he leans back, arms crossing as he huffs. The Uchiha glares silently now, and Shikako sends him a speculative look.

“I believe this conversation has gotten out of hand,” he states, never taking his hand back. Comforting, the warmth of the other. Familiar. “Let us regroup and—”

“No, I believe I’ve seen enough,” the Nara states. She straightens, hands folding into her robes. “When does the screening start?”

It takes his slow brain a minute to catch up. When it does, he smiles, wide and excited. 

“You wish to join? Truly?”

Shikako inclines her head marginally. “I do. I understand that Madara-Sama’s reaction was to the implication of your leadership, which was out of line on my part. You two herold from very powerful clans and you chose to make your village near our home. It is in the Nara’s best interest to join lest your foes take us out in the process. Besides. Your idea of peace, I thought it immature. Foolish, but I see now a true possibility. If you would allow us, our loyalty would be to you and your village.” 

Surprisingly, the Nara leader bows her head.

The delegation behind her appear just as startled as Hashirama feels. Lowering one’s head is not to be taken lightly in their world. Begging is an astute term for it, but also—

Sincerity. 

Hashirama smiles, glancing at Madara before he can help it.

A single black eye stares back at him, flicking to the woman and away.

“We accept,” the Uchiha states, straightening. “Raise your head.”

Shikako does, face blank as her eyes flickers between them. Always.

Giddy, he leans forth, waving for Tobirama to produce the scrolls the youngest has checked over time and time again to attest to his brother’s past knowledge. Refined, Tobirama’s made them, to reflect the present opinions.

Reluctantly, the albino does.

“Shall we begin, then?”

*   *   *

The Nara move into Konoha. Deciding on a plot of land near the Uchiha, closest to the border of the village, Hashirama constructs their compound. 

The Yamanaka and Akimichi followed as promised, their heads Inobu—a man the same age as Shikako, old and wise—and Chosuke—a young man, not much older than Hashirama was when he became clan head, a novice—passing the screening just like the Nara and promising their loyalty all the same. They were pleasant men and Hashirama had a lingering suspicion that when the clans were fully settled, the Nara and Yamanaka heads would resign, leaving their leadership in the hands on the next generation as is usual of the infamous trio.

The clans integrate surprisingly well. The Senju are more welcoming, accepting the foreign clans with open arms whereas the Uchiha are more reserved, cautious of the newcomers but pleasant nonetheless. It takes three weeks for everything to settle, until clan members walk down the street and no one sees a ‘Nara’ or a ‘Yamanaka’ but a member of Konohagakure instead. 

It’s so pleasing to note the rapid growth of the village and with the sudden influx of children, he makes it a priority to get the academy up and running. 

“An Uchiha should not teach the children anything,” Tobirama rants, following him through the Hokage building.

“I care not for your opinions, Tobi. If Fumio wishes to teach, she can teach. Same as any person from any other clan. Should a Yamanaka want a position, they can have it just as a Nara, just as an Akimichi.”

He can feel the disapproval radiating from his brother, but he pays it no mind as he enters the office, a smile lighting his features at the sight of Madara behind the Hokage desk. 

“What is he—” Tobirama snarls.

“Shut it, Senju. Aniki is picking up your brother’s slack,” Izuna snaps from the side.

Startled, he glances over, having not noticed the man where he rests against a wall.

Tobirama glares, turning back to Hashirama with a ‘See what I mean?’ expression. “They’re too temperamental. They can’t teach the future generation—”

“And you’re not, Senju Dog?” Izuna snarls before Hashirama even has time to think of a comeback, stepping up to Tobirama. “At least we know loyalty. What about you? From what I hear, you beat your children when they step outside of line instead of making them understand the consequences of their actions. I certainly don’t want that with our future—”

“Enough,” Madara’s voice echoes as he places the brush in his hand down. He looks as if he’s aged thirty years with the conversation alone as he glares at all three of them.

Hashirama takes a step back because it’s not his mess and hastily walks to the man’s side.

“Uchiha Fumio will be a teacher just as Senju Masato. If you have any complaints, then you can be teachers.”

Neither Tobirama or Izuna speak and Hashirama stifles a smile—failing if the seething look his brother gives him is anything to go by.

“We’ve already decided on the coursework and how to implement it, which you, Senju, have already looked over thricefold with Izuna’s assistance. If you had complaints, you should’ve done it then.”

Madara stands, and Hashirama can’t resist brushing his hand along the other’s lower back as he steps by.

A black eye catches his, and a wave of fondness overcomes him. He leans in before he can think better of it, pressing a kiss to a quickly reddening cheek.

“Not here Anija—”

“Gross, stop—”  

“Shut up,” Madara snaps, breezing by the two who look at them with a pale horror. 

He gives a sheepish smile, following quickly. The door shuts behind them with a soft clack.

“What are we doing today?” he asks as Madara leads them outside. 

The air is cool as summer bleeds to autumn, but the sun is still quite bright. It burns, warms as it smiles down at them, greeting.

People pass, addressing them as they go. A Senju here, an Uchiha there. Yamanaka, Nara, and Akimichi. So integrated that if not for the clan symbols on their clothes, he wouldn’t be able to tell who was who.

“Madara-Sama!”

“Hashirama-Sama!”

Satisfying, the feeling. Content he is to finally experience this.

“Many things,” Madara finally mutters as they fall onto the main road. “We need to check the Academy, see how the new teachers and children are doing, then you need to check the hospital because I have not even the slightest clue about medical jutsu. After that, we’ll hold our first meeting with all the clan heads for your inauguration—”

He stumbles slightly, staring with wide eyes at Madara’s dark-clothed back.

“What?” 

The Uchiha doesn’t linger, pressing forth so Hashirama hastily follows.

“I said—” Madara starts.

“I heard what you said.”

A black eye filled with irritation glances back at him. “Then why—”

“Inauguration? For what?”

Madara turns forward again, shoulders tensing. “For Hokage.”

His hand grasps the other’s as he pulls them to a stop in the middle of the road. Life travels on around them, diverging and diverting to leave them alone in their world. 

Madara glares.

He frowns. “I want a vote.”

“There’s no need for a vote.”

“Yes, there—”

“I. Do not. Want. It,” Madara stresses through clenched teeth. His eyes flash as he grabs the collar of Hashirama’s robes, pulling them close. “Believe it or not, Senju, my opinion is just as valid as yours. If I say I don’t want it, why pressure me into it?”

Hashirama stares, jaw clenched as the first inklings of irritation swarm him. 

“I’d believe it if you’d just tell me why—”  

“Because you are a better fit leader.”

“I am not. You would be. You’re loyal, you’re strong. Amazing, Madara, so why—”

“You’re stronger.”  

His teeth click as his jaw shuts. Bewildered, he stares at the Uchiha who refuses to meet his gaze now.

“You’re eloquent. You speak, and people listen. I paraded you through my compound once, and you had people— my people—falling at your feet with a few words afterward. A Senju. You’re better with people and you’re someone who makes others feel at ease. I am none of that.”

“I am not stronger—”

“Yes. You are. We’ve never put it to the test, but I don’t need a fight to the death to know you would beat me. I saw it, remember? Even without that, I know and have known since we were children, and I’ve accepted it. All I can give you is—is me, and that’s not a lot—”

“Madara—”

“—No, I’m not done,” Madara snaps.

People startle at his tone, glancing at them warily.

Hashirama takes the hand clasping his robes and pulls them into a small dense of forest off the road. Shaded by the trees, they’re hidden.

“I’m not done,” the Uchiha repeats in a softer tone. “You speak of my loyalty, but what about yours? I abandoned our plan for years yet you never gave up once. Casting all of my past discretions aside, all my inabilities, I still think it should be you. You’re perfect for it.”

Hashirama swallows, throat suddenly too thick and mouth too dry. His eyes sting. 

He’s never heard Madara speak about anyone as such. Never gushed nor praised. Izuna was the only one who ever received that fond look in the Uchiha’s gaze, yet here it is now. For him, a Senju. Oh, how far they’ve come.

It pleases him, he must admit. Strokes him like a cat yearning for affection. It eats him, the pleasure. Razing his emotions until they’re nothing but joy and pride and Madara running through his mind.

Stepping forward, he presses Madara against a tree, making the Uchiha tilt his head back to look up at him.

“What if I want you at my side?” he murmurs, leaning close. Their noses brush softly. If he were to do this, that is a must. Indisputable. 

Madara’s eyes fall shut as he leans into the caress.

“Then I shall be. Is that not what we’ve prepared for?”

A zing of satisfaction. 

He clasps Madara’s jaw, tilting it to accept the kiss he presses down. 

Madara melts, hands fisting his robes as he deepens the embrace. Tongues slide, and warmth is shared for a brief period before he pulls back with a quiet, wet parting.

“You would be perfect, my Love. So loyal, so strong.”

And he would be. Hashirama modeled his ideal of Hokage from Madara, after all. So quintessential for the role. So exemplary.

Madara’s nose flutters against his cheek, skimming and nuzzling. “I do not want it, Hashirama. Can you accept that?”

No, he wants to say. The dream he’s held for years always focused Madara at the head. Always watching his lover’s back, leading and protecting. He… mourns to see it go. Longs for it to be reality. 

But Madara doesn’t want it. Thinks he’d be a better leader.

Ha. As if. He’d run this village into the ground on his own. By himself, it’d raze.

But. 

If he became Hokage, Madara wouldn’t leave. He’d still be by Hashirama’s side. Not quite leading, however, and if they—

If they—

If they—  

“You will never leave my side?” he murmurs, lips pressing to Madara’s temple as his idea evolves. Grows and expands, he thinks.  

“No,” is the whispered reply.

“You will be there when I need you?”

“Yes.”

“You will guide me?”

“Yes.”

“Be my other half?”

“Yes.”  

“Marry me?”

Madara’s breath hitches, and he smiles, pressing closer as he clasps Madara’s hand to his chest, fingers laced.

It’s not… how he ever envisioned asking the other. After wooing him, perhaps. After courting for a period, but… they’ve finally achieved their dream, haven’t they?

Their goal.

Their pipe dream.  

They had nothing holding him back and if he and Madara became one, then they’d be invincible—  

“No.”

He tenses, stepping away instantly, but hands fisted in his robes root him. Stining, the feeling is. Unfamiliar. It burns.

“Not yet,” Madara states, tugging him close again.

He allows himself to be guided, stunned. 

“Yet?”

Slowly, Madara shakes his head as his arms come up to wrap around his neck. Fingers card his hair, nails dragging against his scalp as they’re pressed flush once more. Clingy, Madara is, as if he can’t bear to be parted from him any longer.

Madara initiates the kiss this time and he allows it. The pricking feeling ebbed by the man’s words, his emotions soothed. 

He roots himself to the other, hands on his waist, sliding beneath a dark blue yukata but he doesn’t let it stray further. Not yet. Comforting, the kiss is and appeasing. Reassuring, it eases him greatly.

Madara pulls back, looking up at him with a look so soft—

He wants.  

“Marry me,” he states, voice firmer. 

Startled, Madara blinks as a red coat flushes his cheeks. 

“I—What?”

“You said ‘yet’, but I want now. I want you.”  

“You have me.”

“Then marry me.”

The red deepens, ruby and beautiful. Always so beautiful, Madara is, but especially when he flushes.

“My Love,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to warm skin. “My Love. Marry me. Please? Become one with me.”

“I—”

Madara’s voice cracks as Hashirama trails his light kisses to the man’s pale neck. He can feel the blood rushing beneath his lips. The coursing beat of the Uchiha’s heart, so strong, so warm. He can’t resist the urge to sink his teeth in and fingers tighten in his hair as Madara gasps, low and surprised. He soothes the bites with his tongue before placing an apologetic kiss for his impulse. 

“Marry me,” he states again, muffled from his position buried deep in Madara’s embrace.

“Not—”

His teeth sink in once more along the juncture where Madara’s throat meets his shoulder and the man cuts off, a soft moan falling from his lips instead of the denial. He sucks lightly, soothing again and kissing. A mark, he wants. To show his claim. His resolve.

“Marry me.”  

Madara moans as he bites again, sucking harder and his hand clasps the pale thigh sliding out of the yukata to press to his side. He caresses, kneading as he hikes it against his waist. Madara could crush him with the appendage with relative ease, so sturdy and powerful. It sends a jolt of arousal through him. 

Hands clasp his hair and shoulder as the Uchiha presses against him, closer, as if that were possible, lost to himself, it seems.

He wants—

The ringing of a child’s laughter in the distance pulls him away. He startles, dropping Madara’s leg as the man pulls himself up. Blinking, he realizes where they are and what they’ve almost done. He flushes.

They were hidden, yes, but anyone passing could have peeked and then—

Madara’s flushed, panting form glares up at him, and he feels his own face heat.

“Mada—”

“You know better than to start something in public,” the man hisses, still leaning against the tree as he fixes his robes. Angry he is, but Hashirama knows it’s mostly at himself. Ashamed.

He nods, accepting the blame directed his way.

“I still meant every word,” he manages to get out, ignoring the emotions whirling within him. The arousal, the need, the want.  

Madara avoids eye contact as he stands. 

“Marry me and lead with me.”

Black eyes dart to his and harden. “You want to marry me to lead?”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “No—?”

“You asked me to marry you because I said no to being Hokage? Is that your wrap around to it?”

Seething now, Madara glares.

Hashirama sweats.

“My Love—”

“Just who do you think—”

“Madara,” he practically yells, stepping forth to grab the man’s wrist before he can run off.

The Uchiha tenses but doesn’t flee, and he breathes a silent breath of relief.

“I didn’t ask you to marry me for that. Though, I won’t lie, it’s a good addition.”

Black eyes glare as he stares back with as much sincerity as he can show. 

The glare falters slightly.

“I’ve wanted to marry you since we were seventeen. Since we started meeting in a cave with the world against our back but our love in our hearts. I just—I mean—I thought it,” he flusters suddenly. Embarrassed, he realizes what he’s done. He looks away. “So I said it,” he finishes lamely.

It’s quiet as he stews in his awkward thoughts.

“It was—not the best way to ask, I understand,” he rushes when the silence becomes too loud. “But I thought that—that we could lead together, yes, and how amazing it would be, but also we could become one. A—A family, you see. Our dreams, they’ve been made reality, and I thought—I mean—I—If you married me—I just want you to marry me.”  

Madara’s breath catches, and he risks a glance up.

A shiny sheen is cast over the single black eye staring at him, and his heart drops. 

“I mean, it was stupid, you know. We don’t have to right now. I was just spewing my thoughts. I’m quite content the way—”

“You really mean it?”

He stares at the other in befuddlement for a moment.

Madara avoids his gaze, looking at the ground between them.

“Do I… mean it?”

Madara doesn’t answer, and Hashirama lets out a breath of relief.

“My Love, of course I mean it. I’ve been waiting on this day forever. I merely tend to say the things I think the moment they cross my mind. Had I thought this alone, I would’ve planned something you probably would’ve hated but secretly loved.”

That earns the softest huff of laughter he’s ever heard, but it makes him brighten like the sun. He steps forward, taking Madara’s face in his hands.

Black eyes peer up into his, and he smiles, soft and sincere.

“We don’t have to marry now… just plan to.”

“So an engagement?” Amusement flickers to life in dark eyes.

He smiles wider. “An engagement.”

The amusement dies as Madara’s gaze looks away. Contemplating, he seems to be. Silence ticks by, and he does his best to quell his quickly rising anxiety.

“What if… I’m hiding something from you?”

He does his best to hide his startlement but he knows he sucks at it so he stops.

Madara refuses to look, and he, in turn, refuses to step away.

“Hiding? Then why don’t you tell me?”

Black eyes stare up at him, chin tilting defiantly. 

“What if I’m not ready to tell you?”

Relief seeps in. He had thought that perhaps Madara would never tell him. “Then I’ll wait until you are.”

Disblief covers the other’s face before it falls into something Hashirama can’t quite place. Madara wiggles from his grasp to bury his face in his neck instead.

“I’ll marry you if you stop asking me to be Hokage.” 

The words tickle his throat, breath caressing, but he pays it all no mind as he processes.

A smile splits his face, far wider than any other’s he’s held before. Plants sprout, soaring tall. Flowers, ivy, trees. They blossom and bud, surrounding the area in a ten-foot radius.

People walking on the street nearby frighten with sharp exclaimations and shouts, but he pays it all no mind because Madara just said yes.  

Giddy, he laughs, taking Madara into his arms and spinning them once.

“Yes!”

Madara startles, struggling against his hold, but he doesn’t let the other escape.

“Hashi—”

“You can’t take it back! You’re mine now, Uchiha.”

The man stops struggling, looking down at him. His expression relaxes into something soft, something fond, and Hashirama feels his emotions soar to new heights. 

He didn’t know it was possible to be this happy. His heart feels as if it is going to burst from emotion and the racing adrenaline.

Eventually, he places Madara back down as his body vibrates with excitement. With shaking hands, he cups the man’s head before a realization alights in his own.

“I must tell Tobi immediately,” he rushes before darting away.

Madara’s eyes widen a moment before there’s a harsh tug on his robes, pulling him back.

“As much as I would love to see your brother’s reaction to the news,” Madara starts, “I think we should keep this between us. For now,” the man rushes when he must see Hashirama’s face fall.

“You don’t… want to tell people?”

His heart sinks when Madara shakes his head.

“Not—Not now. Later, we will, of course, but… right now. Everything is so new. Let’s get your acclimated to the role of Hokage and the village used to it before we place upon them the burden of our—our… union.” Flushing, Madara looks away, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hashirama ponders that for a moment. 

Madara… does have a point. A small one. Same-sex unions aren’t… common, and they’re both clan heads no less. There will be strife, but he thinks they will be accepted eventually. Still, he supposes the Uchiha isn’t wrong about acclimation. A few months should suffice, no?

“I don’t think we should keep it from our brother’s, though.”

Madara blinks, pondering as well before a devilish smirk lights his features. “You know what, I agree. Your brother should be the first to know.”

He understands what Madara is getting at yet he doesn’t quite care. Amusing, it would be, Tobirama’s befuddled, incredulous denial.

Izuna would accept.

“Okay.”

Madara’s eyes gleam.

*   *   *

“No, you’re not.”

Hashirama sighs, preparing for the argument that is starting to sprout.

Madara stands next to him, smugness oozing from his pores, and Hashirama’s helpless to stop it.

Angry, seething red eyes glare at him, refusing to look at or even acknowledge the Uchiha at his side.

Izuna lingers back, eyeing them speculatively, but rejection is absent. It eases him some.

“I am, Tobi. You cannot stop me.”

“You cannot marry an Uchiha!”  

Madara leans into him antagonizingly, collecting the arm closest to him in a grasp. In an uncharacteristic fashion, the Uchiha stakes his claim with a smile.

“I believe it’s far too late for your intervention, Senju. I have agreed after he so desperately begged me to.”

He believes Tobirama will combust from anger. His brother’s pale face reddens so harshly, his eyes finally looking over, shooting kunais at Madara’s gloating gaze. 

“Anija doesn’t—”

“Oh, but he does. You should hear what he says when we couple—”

“SHUT UP!”

“Yes, Aniki, please,” Izuna begs quietly, earning Tobirama’s ire as he turns swiftly.

“You cannot possibly accept this! It’s a disgrace to both of our clans!”

Izuna stares silently at Tobirama, black eyes flickering. “It’s not your place to give your permission or not. They’re both adults. Our older brothers.” 

Surprised, Tobirama is at Izuna’s change of opinion. Visibly so. He stares, dumbfounded as if he expected Izuna to agree and Hashirama finds himself in sympathy. Had the previous incident never happened, he, too, would have expected Izuna’s reprisal rather than acceptance. 

“You—”

“Tobirama, enough,” he states, and Tobirama’s red glare turns back to him. “It is happening.”

“You’re both men.”  

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Anger and embarrassment ooze from his brother. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant, and we’ll deal with that later. For now, we’ll keep quiet. Just until I get acclimated into the Hokage position then we will spread news.”

Tobirama calms a bit at his words, shoulders relaxing slightly. 

“Hokage? You finally see reason that an Uchiha cannot lead us?”

Madara scoffs, and Hashirama bites back the irritation he feels. 

Blame Father, blame Father, he repeats in his head. Their father’s beliefs were one of the main reasons Tobirama is the way he is and Hashirama is helpless to undo it. Uncertain where to start, really, but it should be addressed soon.

“Madara has declined the position and encouraged me into it. It has nothing to do with an Uchiha being unfit, Tobi.”

Red eyes roll.

His temper flares.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Don’t marry an Uchiha.”

“You cannot control my life.”

“You cannot possibly be so stupid, Anija.”

“I’m not, Tobirama.”

“They’re cursed.”  

Immediately, tensions rise, and Hashirama’s brow sweats.

Oh boy.  

“Tobi—”

“No! I won’t accept it! You could choose anyone else but not an Uchiha! Not a man whose powers are generated from their hatred!”  

Everything happens at once. He barely manages to grab Madara’s wrist as he flits out, halting the man from taking the life of his last brother. Madara rounds on him, fist swinging and he dodges before taking that wrist into his grasp too, holding firmly.

The other Uchiha he can’t stop, however. Merely helpless to watch as Izuna pins his brother to a wall, kunai to his throat.

His brow sweats.  

“Izuna—” he starts and Madara snarls.

“He has no right—”  

Tobirama jolts, landing against the wall with another thump as Izuna jerks him, snarling something low between them. Whatever he says makes Tobirama’s ire fade away slowly, but his stubbornness remains. He can tell by the obstinate set of his brother’s jaw that he won’t take back his words, but he can see that Tobirama is at least a bit chaste.

Surprising, really. Shockingly so.

“No right,” Izuna snarls, finishing whatever he was saying before stabbing the kunai into the wall, mere millimeters from Tobirama’s eye. 

His brother, for his part, doesn’t even flinch—he does, though—merely staring, eyes locked on the youngest Uchiha with an unreadable gaze as he steps back and walks away.

Izuna storms past, grabbing Madara’s arm and pulling.

“Come with me,” Izuna states, eyes flicking to his and away. “If he stays here, you might not have a brother anymore.”

Hashirama hastens his escape, tugging Madara along as well, who seethes quietly. Truthfully, the silence frightens him greatly. Madara is known to be vocal during his anger so tranquility is… quite uncanny.

Terrifying.

He pulls his lover— fiancé!— from the room.

Izuna leads them to the main Uchiha house, deep within the Uchiha compound, and Hashirama barely manages to get his lover— fiancé!— inside before he turns on him.

“Your brother is way out of line!”

He winces back, nodding. “I know—”

“To speak of things he knows nothing about! The arrogance! First, he almost killed Izuna— did kill Izuna!—and then he has the audacity—”

“My Love,” he cuts off, placing his hands on Madara’s shoulders.

The Uchiha tempers, glaring still but no longer vibrating with his emotions. 

“I know Tobirama views your clan in a… less than satisfactory light. I will talk to him about it.”

“It’s not like I don’t feel the same way about the Senju, Aniki,” Izuna states, finally entering and shutting the fusuma softly. Black eyes flicker to him and back to Madara. “Tobirama is the same as me—”

“You are at least accepting!”

Izuna sighs wearily. He appears to be at war with himself a moment before, “Tobirama… does too. In his own way. Hashirama knows that, don’t you?”

He nods as the focus shifts to him. 

“I… Yes, Tobirama accepts of us differently, but regardless what he said was out of line,” he states firmly. 

Izuna eyes him blankly while Madara leans into his side. He can’t resist wrapping his arm around the other.

“I’ll speak to him,” Hashirama repeats.

Madara nods, dark hair tickling his neck as his ire seems to leave him in one fell swoop. 

His brother… So troublesome. He should have spoken to him sooner, but… needless to say, he’s been distracted.

“I’ll go now then, Aniki,” Izuna states, turning away. He slides the doors open, lingering with his back to them. 

“Congratulations,” are the murmured words before the Uchiha disappears.

*   *   *

Despite all of Madara’s and Tobirama’s insistence, they do have a vote because that’s what he promised the people. Their opinions are just as valid as his and Madara’s, and he must prove it.

Madara pulls his name after the Uchiha elders sneak it into the poll, and Hashirama wins with a unanimous vote. How strange that feels, but Madara seems satisfied so that’s something. 

The Uchiha does accept the position of advisor, much to Tobirama’s chagrin, but his brother grits it without much complaint—very surprising. It seems since his last outburst, he’s been more quiet about his disapproval with the Uchiha, more subdued. Somber.

Hashirama spoke to him about his prejudice not long after to which he was stone-walled and rejected at every word, but he said his piece, and he’s certain Tobirama understands his ostrization of the Uchiha clan will not be accepted any longer. 

“It’s suffocating,” he mutters bitterly, tugging on the red and white robes. Despite the cool weather outside, his body was hot from the abundant material.

“Live with it,” Madara states without so much as glancing up from the pile of papers in front of them.

They sit alone in the meeting room, preparing for the first clan head meeting. There’s a line, long and strewn that carries outside of the building, and Hashirama’s stomach grumbles in protest. 

It was going to be a long day.

Not long after his inauguration, the influx of letters and requests began. It seems that word of the Nara, Yamanaka, and Akimichi annex spread quickly and many clans were interested as well. It took some time and preparation to get everything organized and today was the day where they’d interview different clans and decide whether or not to let them join.

Madara thought it better to do everything at once rather than preparing a meeting or two a day—it would take far too long with the number of people wishing to settle.

Soon enough, Shikako, Inobu, and Chosuke arrive, nodding their greetings.

“I have a question,” Shikako states as she sits next to Madara.

“Yes?”

“The newcomers today. Will we have to wait for the leader of each clan to join our council before we accept another, or will the council present currently decide whether to accept them without the input of the previously accepted clans?”

Hashirama’s mouth opens and closes. He hadn’t thought of that.

“The ones joining today will be decided by the council present,” Madara states without so much as a glance up from his papers, brush never ceasing. “Seeing as it would be unfair to allow the newcomers to decide after we have acclimated and they have not. They’ll be given a week’s probation before they are accepted into the council and given power for future decisions. You went through the same probation, even if it wasn’t called that. Hashirama and I decided to accept the Yamanaka and Akimichi without your input, after all.”

Satisfied, Shikako nods, a smile tugging at her lips.

Chosuke appears nervous, hands fiddling anxiously but a hand on his shoulder by Inobu calms him immensely. 

“Don’t worry,” Hashirama states, smiling at the boy softly. “We’ll guide you through it, but don’t be afraid to speak up. It is the premise of the village that we all agree—or the majority. Everyone should have a voice.”

Chosuke’s chubby cheeks redden as he ducks his head in a nod.

The first interviewee is Kaede Inuzuka. Another matriarch with dark brown hair and bright red clan markings. Rather expressive and upbeat, Hashirama takes to her immediately, alongside her dog partner.

She agrees with all the rules laid out thus far and is the first to request to add some.

“Animals, you know, are quite special. They think and feel just as we do, even if they aren’t as sentient. They should have rights too.”

Hashirama is immediately on board. “State your appeals.”

Kaede smiles, bright and happy.

Madara sighs, but he doesn’t complain as the woman speaks her mind. All the while, her hand never leave’s the dog’s head. All the things she asks are reasonable and humane, everything anyone with a conscious should follow but better to have it in writing.

Hashriama entices the animal as she leaves, growing a quick tree and plucking a stick. The dog barks excitedtly as Hashirama tosses it out the window, following quickly.

“Nakamura!” Kaede yells as she follows after.

Madara sighs again, exasperated, and Hashirama laughs in delight, watching the pair go.

Many more enter and leave, all agree and some adding. 

The Sarutobi bring up the consensus of shinobi ranks, imploring more into the details which Hashirama eagerly gives. They still have yet to send the first wave of missions, but with a stable leader, it should make way soon. The head appears to agree to the terms he’s laid out, and they enter the fold.

The Shimura bring complaint about such an old age for cadette graduation which Hashirama gently states about how this village was founded with the idea of children allowing to be just that. Fifteen is the age they will graduate the academy and it’s indisputable. It may change in the future but only to up the age limit rather than lower it, considering Hashirama percieves the life expectancy to rise. Reluctantly, the head finally agrees, and they’re the next to join.

The Aburume bring question of clan secrets. If they would be forced to divulge or renounce to which Madara answered immediately that they would remain secrets. Information regarding the Sharignan would stay with the Uchiha just as the information regarding the Aburume insect breeding would remain unknown unless they so wished. Pleased, they gave their acceptance and joined.

Many clans, many opinions, and many agreements. The Fuma made quite a bit of travel to join, the Kohaku not so much. 

There were a few clans Hashirama expected to hear from but have yet to send word: Hyuuga and Hatake. He’s certain that there won’t be a world in which the powerful Hyuuga won’t seek to join and he prepares himself for the conversation that is to follow that one. 

The Hatake, on the other hand, is surprising. His mother’s clan. He anticipated them to be one of the first yet they are silent. Worried, he is, but demands of the Hokage hat keep him chained. He’s tempted to send Tobirama, but he doesn’t want his brother to stray far from the village just yet. There’re internal affairs that need tending to, and his brother is quite fit when he and Madara are withheld. 

Uzumaki sends word of the alliance agreement, and Hashirama is suddenly faced with a newfound fear. A horror he had forgotten, for there was never a time to bring it up.

He was to be wed and not to Madara.

Oh fuck.  

*   *   *

He spends days building houses and homes, thinking, pondering how to bring up the dreaded topic.

Madara is sure to react. Sure to be angry and hurt and—

Izuna’s presence doesn’t help anything. He can’t keep worrying about how to broach the subject with the lingering threat at his back. It’s making him anxious and troubled. 

“My Love, will you hand me that?” he asks, flicking a hand toward a small ink bottle on a desk far away. He needs to send word to Mito about his latest development. 

They were pen pals, he and the Uzumaki princess. It was deigned as so after their congregation years ago, during the blank period of Madara’s absence. Heartbroken and angry, Hashirama was unable to refuse. Due to a previous agreement between Butsuma and Katsuro, Mito’s father and clan head, he and Mito were to be wed upon his ascension to leadership. It was only put off because he was ignoring the letters—truthfully, he hadn’t even remembered getting any—until the Uzumaki showed up at the Senju compound gates in person.

Luckily enough, he’s managed to defer the agreement further, stating he was in no place to wed until his goals were achieved. Katsuro reluctantly agreed only after stating that it would be considered a courting period for he and Mito.

They’ve sent letters for years now, and he finds himself quite close to the woman—he made it vividly clear during the first few weeks of correspondence that he will not marry her under any circumstance, and she made it prevalent that she understands and accepts. 

During his… depression, he may or may not have divulged information pertaining to his and Madara’s… affair—it was his first and only time drinking, and he was not himself. Blessedly, Mito seemed amused and interested instead of angry and scorned. She poked and prodded until he spilled everything.

A true friend, she is. She gave him advice, told him of possibilities that didn’t include Madara leaving him all the while consoling him and lending a listening ear. She encouraged him, even! Truly, an amazing woman, but—

He’s torn from his thoughts as he realizes Madara is looking at him questioningly.

“What?”

Madara’s head nods towards the jar. “I said, what do you want me to get? There’s nothing there.”

Puzzled, his brow furrows as he glances over to see that, yes, the bottle was still there.

“Yes, there is. It’s right there.”

Briefly, Madara’s brow twitches as he looks again, rising to his feet. “I see. It must have passed my perception.”

Hashirama’s stare lingers because the bottle is quite obvious—black and in the middle of an empty table, merely some distance away—but his confusion is swayed as Madara questions.

“Who are you writing to?”

Immediately, his heart sinks and his face heats.

He fumbles.

“I—um—you—I—”

Madara’s guard flies up so fast that he’s left speechless. Of course. He should have known he’d never be able to keep anything from the other and now that it’s become clear to him, he would have no choice but to explain.

“What?”

He takes a breath, placing his brush down. His heart races, adrenaline rushes, and he prays to the gods that he makes it out with only a few scars and broken bones.

“I have been keeping something from you.”

Madara tenses immediately, pulling back some to stare at him head-on. Impassivly, the Uchiha eyes him.

“Continue.”

He swallows thickly.

“Um, I, okay,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. Never one to tiptoe around things, he decides to just come out and say it. “I am to be wed to the Uzumaki princess. In the Spring, apparently.”

Unreadable, Madara’s gaze is, his expressions are, but his shoulders fall slightly. 

Taking that as sadness, Hashirama rushes.

“But I don’t plan to follow through, of course! No, Mito knows of my feelings and opinions, and she accepts. I should have told you this sooner, but I merely forgot until Katsuro’s letter. The Uzumaki don’t wish to join, but they do want an alliance—Mito and I’s marriage is to be the knot to tie us together, but I’ve been pondering what I could use instead to put them off until—”

“Hashirama.”

Deathly unreadable, the Uchiha’s voice is.

His jaw clicks shut immediately. “Y—Yes?”

Madara shifts, eyes squinting a moment before blanking again. The Uchiha leans back in his chair, arms crossing.

“You’re marrying someone else?”

His eyes widen in horror. “No—!”

“You’re engaged and didn’t tell me?”

He winces. “I—”

“You lied to me.”

He doesn’t deny that. Forgotten, it may have been, but his actions were just that. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, the blank expression falls away, and Hashirama can see amusement alight in that dark gaze alongside anger. Such warring emotions, yet Madara’s lips twitch.

“I know.”

He freezes briefly before, “What?”

Leaning forth, Madara sits up straight. “I said I know. I know you’re engaged to Mito.”

Confused, he stares. It’s not like the engagement was spoken of. Hashirama never announced it to the clan, for he knew it would never happen and as far as he was aware, the Uzumaki were quite secretive with their affairs. For Madara to know—

“I’ve… spoken with her before,” Madara states, glancing off as he reminisces. “Many years ago. Around the time I ascended to leadership. She… helped me. Told me of your yearning and how she… wished to join our village one day.”

True, those words are. Mito often writes to him, asking when the village he dreams will come true since she wishes to leave. Apparently, the Uzumaki were quite oppressive. Strong the clan is, but its treatment of women is a horrendous one. Surprisingly with how strong-willed she turned out to be. 

After Hashirama’s word-vomit about his dreams and relationship with Madara, Mito made him promise to house her in the future. Since she won’t be able to escape with marriage, she wants asylum when she inevitably shows up on his doorstep. He agreed, of course, but within the last two months, he’d completely forgotten. 

Until now.

Still, for Madara to have spoken to her over the course of his retaliation, it’s surprising. 

“Truthfully, it was her words that helped me come around again. She told me that the future is never so concrete, which helped me believe you. Accept you.”

Stunned, the words leave him. He hadn’t known she ever spoke to Madara. Hadn’t known of this meeting or her words. Her influence. 

A sudden, deep burst of gratitude swells within him for the woman.

Unknowingly it may have been, she still helped give him the one thing he’s yearned for.

He smiles, wide and pleased.

Madara’s eyes roll.

“Not that you get out of not telling me about your engagement. We were together for years—”

“I didn’t know of it then! Or, perhaps, I forgot. Either way, Father was the one to make the agreement years before I was born. The Uzumaki’s are our cousins, after all, and he wished to strengthen our bonds. It could have easily been Tobirama’s engagement had he been born first.”

Madara frowns at that but doesn’t comment.

“I received a letter yesterday from Katsuro with a date of our wedding,” he carries on. “Mito and I have discussed this for years—the wedding won’t happen, but she will still come to us. We haven’t quite worked on the details, seeing how busy I was with avoiding your clan and trying to temper our collisions. I believe she has an idea, but we have until the spring to discuss it. I’ve offered her sanctuary from her clan when she does leave.”

Black hair falls as Madara’s head tilts. Contemplating, he seems to be.

“Why does she seek refuge?”

“The Uzumaki, despite their power, are oppressive to their women. She wishes to change that.”

“I see.”

“Are you angry with me?”

Black eyes alight with amusement. “You might have to make it up to me later, but… no. I’ve had years to ponder her words.”

“Words?”

A wide smile, all teeth and vicious. “She thought she could goad me and it… might have worked, but not the way she expected.”

Foreboding befalls him at Madara’s exclamation, but before he can linger on it, his lover leans over to look at the blank paper in front of him.

“Write to each of them separately. Tell Katsuro you agree on the date set and discuss with Mito her plans to leave. I presume you have a secure way of doing so from the years you’ve written?”

“Yes, we have a seal—”

“I understand. Just get me a plan on what she wishes to do so we can prepare the village. I’m sure the Uzumaki won’t take lightly to sanctioning their runaway princess. We need to plan accordingly now.”

Warmth flows through him, heavy and exposing. Just when he thinks his love for Madara has peaked, the man exceeds his expectations. 

He smiles, and Madara turns his head away. 

“Thank you, my Love.”

“Whatever,” the Uchiha grumbles. “Just tell the Princess that she owes me again.”

He laughs, happy and loud. 

*   *   *

Despite the quick annexation of clans to Konoha, tensions outside of Fire rise. Discourse unfurls and Hashirama’s trepidation rises.

A Kage Summit, that’s what he needs. Peace talks. He doesn’t want to fight any longer—what would be the point of Konoha if they did? Why make a village for peace is all it brings is war?

But he would need something to offer up. Konoha is powerful, he knows. With the influx of so many clans, such diversity of power, other nations are wary.

So… what can he do to keep the peace?

Despite still pondering, he sends words to the newfound Kage, requesting a meeting. Reluctantly, they all agree and a date is set.

“Madara will stay,” he tells Tobirama who glares at him. “That is the role the advisor will play. We’ve decided this years ago.”

“That is not what an advisor does, Anija. He needs to go with you.”

That brings everyone up short. Madara stares with distrust and surprise while Izuna looks on with a blank expression.

Hashirama’s stunned.

“What?” he finally manages to croak after a brief silence.

Tobirama’s jaw hardens beneath his headgear, the same type he used during war. A shame he’s wearing it now, he was getting used to seeing his brother free of armor. Arms cross and Tobirama exhales sharply through his nose.

“You’re an idiot, plain and simple, and you made him your advisor. You’re his issue for when the other leaders walk all over you—and they will. They always do. Since you trust him so much, he can be the one to make sure you’re respected. I, for one, am staying back to watch the village to make sure it doesn’t fall apart in your absence.”

Tobirama glares harder as if to daring Hashirama to challenge him but Hashirama’s too busy trying not to smile to even think about it.

“You want… Madara to go with me? You want it?”

Tobirama’s glare wavers at his implication. “Don’t mistake my intent. If you start a war, so be it. It’s his job to stop that as advisor to prevent that. If you wanted something else, you should have been clearer with your intent. He’s suck with the position as you are. He guides, you lead. You leave the village, he goes too. That’s it. End of discussion. Don’t like it, pick someone else.”

Stunned. 

Everyone is deathly silent.

Hashirama smiles.

Tobirama snarls. “I said do not mistake—”

“Oh, I get it wonderfully, little brother. Just what exactly happened—”

Tobirama storms past before he can finish goading. “Just leave!” The door slams and Hashirama stifles a laugh at how childish his brother is being. 

So stubborn, so emotionally inept. 

He loves him.

“That was…” Madara starts.

“Weird,” Izuna finishes, pushing away from the wall he was leaning on. Walking over, he levels his brother with a look. “But I must also agree. You are advisor. Your job is to advise. Make sure he doesn’t get run over by the other Kage.”

“He’s far more eloquent than me,” Madara defends and he smiles proudly.

“Eloquent but a push-over. Your job is to not let them take over discussions, got it, Aniki? The Senju and I will keep this place safe. You can trust us.”

Madara eyes his brother quietly before he nods.

Hashirama smiles, eyes falling shut.

“Thank you, Izuna.”

The littlest Uchiha glares his harshest glare before turning his nose up as he leaves.

Madara sighs but doesn’t reprimand as Izuna disappears through the door.

*   *   *

Deep underground, below the newly made Uchiha compound, Hashirama stands with Madara by his side. The surroundings lightened by torches, they stare at a stone tablet.

“My Love, what are we doing here?” he murmurs and the fire flickers.

Madara glances at him, eyes red and Sharingan activated. The Uchiha stares, assessing his expression before turning back.

“The secrets of my clan reside here on this rock.”

Startled, Hashirama turns back, blinking. The words written, he can’t decipher. He squints, tilting his head in an attempt to read, but—

Nope. Nothing.

His head starts to hurt the longer he stares and it grows until he forces his eyes away.

Madara smirks.

“What?”

“Only a Sharingan can decipher it, but… a user with the Mangekyou is better suited. Can make more out. I can’t read it completely, but some things are prevalent.”

“What does it say?”

Madara smiles softly.

“It speaks of our abilities. The Mangekyou and the powers of it. I can’t… make it out completely, but…” Madara shakes his head and steps forth, fingers brushing against the carved words. “It also tells of our history. I think. About the Sage of Six Paths, something called Infinite Tsukiyomi, and—tailed beasts.”

“Bijū?” he questions, never truly thinking of them. 

Madara nods. “It speaks of how to control them.”

The power to control a demon?

He stares, eyes flickering back and forth between Madara and the tablet.

Truthfully, the bijū weren’t something he’s ever had any interest in. They were pure chakra—monsters created long before their time. Demons of old. Rumors, of course, tell of their power and destruction and if they can be controlled—  

He blinks, realizing where this is going.

“You want to control them?”

Madara’s head tilts slightly. “They… are demons. You’re worried how the other nations will react to us with such an imbalance of power, correct?”

Hashirama’s mind whirls with thoughts. 

Madara… he truly was a mastermind. He wouldn’t have ever thought of this on his own and it’s perfect. Capturing the bijū and distributing them to the nations with lesser will equal the power between them. 

Peace would be possible with such a feat.

“How?”

Madara smiles, soft and low.

“Well, the Sharingan can…”

*   *   *

Come time for them to depart, their brothers are angsty. Subtle to anyone else, but obvious to them.

Tobirama hovers more, asking him a constant stream of questions that the younger Senju thinks might come up. Giving him scenarios he foresees happening and prodding for his response. 

Izuna glares more, snapping at the slightest thing to which Madara replies in huffs and eye-rolls. Ignore him. He’s temperamental, Madara tells him, which only proves to deepen Izuna’s rising ire.

It’s only going to be the two of them—who needs bodyguards when they’re the Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama? Besides, better to slip by unnoticed with fewer people—and their brothers were making such a fuss.

How utterly amusing.

“Tobirama,” he states finally, done with watching his brother flick through scrolls and handing them over when he deems them fit enough. There was already a pile in his arms, which he most certainly was not taking. “We’ll be fine.”  

Red eyes glare harshly and Izuna eyes them with disbelief.

“I somehow doubt that, Anija.”

He sighs and opens his arms, letting the scrolls fall to the floor.

Tobirama’s irate.

“Anija—”

“Enough. We’re leaving now and it’ll be fine. I’ll make certain that peace is achieved. I promise.”  

That brings his brother’s impending rant to a quick death as he exhales sharply, shoulders slouching.

Madara mutters something similar to Izuna, who glares but doesn’t refute, crossing his arms across his chest instead.

Side by side, they stand facing their brothers.

He smiles placatingly. 

“We’re off now. Behave while we’re gone and don’t let the village burn, okay?”

Tobirama’s temple throbs. “As if we could do any worse than—”

“Have fun!” Hashirama calls, pulling Madara behind him as he steps away. “Love you!”

Tobirama flusters, angry.

Izuna glares, defensive.

Madara sighs wearily. “Yes, please behave.”

“No killing each other either!”

They Shushin into the trees before either sibling could voice anything else. 

Trees blur past in dark oranges and reds. Some green and other’s bare. He caresses the life as he goes, mourning the ones dead for the season while taking in the lingering breath of those continuing to hang on to life.

It would take two days’ journey to reach the meeting point, a place along the border of Fire to the north. A perfect spot, in the middle of the land for a greater convenience for all the Kage’s travel.

Even as experienced shinobi, it’s a quiet run. Long, but not strenuous given how often they used to go on these trips and before he knows it, night’s fallen.

“We should make camp,” Madara states, falling into a small clearing. Black eyes survey the area, flicking to and fro and Hashirama understands Madara was pressing his chakra out to sense for any tag-alongs or intruders. Blinking, the Uchiha glances at him. “It’s clear.”

Brushing his hand along the other’s wrist, he sets up camp starting with a small shack. Something unnoticeable, hidden within the brushes and briar but sturdy enough to protect from the outside elements. 

Madara raps the wood with a knuckle as he enters, eyeing the place with a small smile.

“You are… so talented.”

Beaming, he follows, wrapping his arms around Madara’s waist and nuzzling the man’s hair. It’s soft, caressing as the man leans into his embrace. 

He reaches out, intwining their hands loosely, Madara’s palm to the back of his and the Uchiha’s head falls to his shoulder in response. Lips press to the pale throat opened to him slowly.

Intimate, the moment. They were truly alone—something that’s not happened in years. Many years. He hadn’t anticipated his reaction to the thought as memories of old flood his being.

It was a bad idea.

To be distracted is to be caught dead. Not even with their power are they certain of their success, but—

Madara sighs, relaxed and breathy. 

Heat sears through him at the noise and he presses himself fuller in the lax body in front of him. Their armor clanks together and a hand entwines in his hair, fingers curling against his scalp.

“Madara…”

A breath hitches and his teeth sink in on instinct—always. 

Madara’s voice is soft, wrecked already as he sucks harshly, pulling a barely aduible moan. It’s a bad idea to leave marks in visible spots—he doesn’t have cause to heal them any longer—but his mind listens for naught.

Fingers tighten and tug and he’s helpless to follow through, teeth sinking in on the area slightly higher. It earns a shudder this time as Madara fully relaxes against him. He uses his free arm to keep the man standing and Madara clings to it for dear life.

“My Love,” he murmurs, kissing now. “My fiancé.”  

Madara breathlessly keens, pressing into him in response. 

Hashirama smiles as he guides them both forth. Their bedrolls are still packed—everything is, but it takes little time for them to be placed down and Madara spread out on top, armor clanking to a pile in the corner.

Hashirama’s quickly follows, kneeling between the Uchiha’s spread thighs as black eyes stare at him echantedly. They sparkle with the light of the stars shining through an open window.

Crickets continue to chirp despite the lowering temperature, a cadence flowing into the night as he slowly strips Madara of his clothes.

Pale hands force him to follow, pushing and tugging. Biting back a smile, he complies, falling over the other when they’re both completely bare to rest in the cradle of his hips.

“Hashirama,” Madara murmurs, pressing their lips together finally. Needy, it is. Messy. It… might have been some time since they were able to bed one another—who knew integrating clans could be so exhausting?! 

Slow, he wishes it take it, always, but with the way Madara grabs at him, hands tugging and nails digging into his flesh, he knows that’s not what he’s going to get.

“Fuck me,” the man mutters under him, voice deep and almost pleading.   

A hand wraps around his cock and he freezes, brain stuttering to silence. What was he doing again? 

Madara caresses him, tugging with familiarity no one else would be able to replicate as his free hand grabs the back of Hashirama’s neck to tug him into another deep kiss. He obliges, hand reaching for their packs immediately, finding the vial of oil he has on hand always with ease and their tongues roll, needy and wet.

Their lips separate with a smack, his arousal spiking when Madara tries to follow, glaring when he pulls back further.

He smiles placatingly.

“How do you want—”

Madara rolls before he can finish the question, oil dribbling from his fingers and spilling onto the cloth below as he forgets his actions at the sight of his lover on his knees in front of him. He leans over the other without a second thought, fingers finding the entrance so familiar, so smooth and pressing inside. 

It wasn’t often that he was able to get his lover into this position. So open and vulnerable—he loved it but he loved seeing Madara’s face more.

Sighing, his lover’s body flexes, legs shifting wider to accommodate the intrusion as his head falls forward. He presses a kiss to the newly exposed nape, biting when the temptation hits.

“Fuck.”  

He smiles, soothing the sting with his tongue as he works his lover open slowly. When he’s up to two, Madara rushes.

“It’s fine.”

“But—”

Shifting, a red eye glares back at him, pale shoulder obscurying the lower half of Madara’s face while dark hair tumbles down them in unruly waves. “I said it’s fine. Just—get in.”  

Swallowing thickly, he nods. Scrambling for the vial, he coats himself hastily, hissing with the need coursing within at the sight below.

Madara falls to his elbows when Hashirama takes position behind him, his forehead falling to his folded arms as his back arches so prettily. So perfect.

Hashirama stares. 

He can’t help it. 

Madara was—

Madara was—  

Ethereal.  

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get this sight out of his mind. It will haunt him for the rest of his days and even into lives thereafter.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Hashirama.”  

Round globes press back into him searchingly and he shakes himself from his stupor, biting his lip so hard he can taste blood as he aligns himself. He grabs Madara’s hip with his free hand to keep the man still as he presses inside.

The man beneath him gasps, hands fisting the cloth as he pushes until their hips are flush, his eyes glued to the sight of their connection. Red and raw, he watches himself leave the Uchiha’s body before pressing in again.

It earns a mewl. Soft and broken, the beautiful sound falls between them.

Only Hashirama.

He’s the only one who’s ever been able to do this and he’ll forever be the single one.

Arousal has him pulling out before slamming back in roughly.

Madara gasps, groaning softly. His back arches further, tilting as he presses back against his thrusts.

He groans low in his throat, eyes glued.

What. A. Sight.  

His fingers are bruising as he clasps Madara’s hips, rooting the man in place as he ruts into him harshly. Madara moans, loud and unwilling if the way the man tries to stifle the noise by burying his face into the bedroll bellow is anything to go by. 

The notion irks him for some reason. A voice that pretty shouldn’t be muted. They’ve been over this.

Snowy skin glistens with sweat as slowly trails a hand up an unblemished back, fisting raven locks before he can think better of it. He tugs on a particularly harsh thrust, and Madara’s head falls back instantly, the loudest moan falling from his lips.

“Oh, fuck,” the Uchiha mutters, eyes squeezing shut in bliss as he bites his lip. 

Hashirama feels the man tighten around him, pressing back into him again as he keeps his grip on the other’s hair.

“Fuck, fuck, don’t stop” Madara’s voice cracks, throat clicking as he swallows against the pressure pulling him back. “There, Hashirama. There.”  

He focuses on his motions, taking his pleasure mindlessly as he angles for the spot he know Madara adores. His hand tightens and tugs, forcing the boy to meet his thrusts rougher than they’ve ever been.

Need eats him, hot and heavy. It courses and burns as he’s unable to pull his gaze away from Madara’s pale form bouncing off of his tan one.

He’s close.

Madara is, too, if the way he reaches back and starts pawing at his thigh is anything to go by.

“Please,” Madara breathes, so desperate, so pleading.

Hashirama’s on fire.  

“Just a little more, baby— Fuck!”  

His breath hitches momentarily at the new name as he works the other to completion, hips rolling skillfully. Fingers dig into his hip, nails biting skin as Madara trembles around him. So tight, so warm. He follows through, orgasm washing over him harsher than he’s felt in a while as he fills his lover full. 

(Nature howls, plants grow and life thrives. Thus is the power of Senju Hashirama.)

With a few feeble thrusts, he slumps, breathing harshly. He detangles his hand from Madara’s hair and the man falls to the bedding under him bonelessly. Sweaty and panting, he slips free with a quiet squelch before rolling off to the side.

The glow sings on his skin, cooling in the night air.

Madara nuzzles into his side immediately, his arms accepting without a second thought.

“That was new,” are the murmured words pressed to his neck as Madara hides himself there.

Clingy. Always after sex.

Hashirama absolutely adores it.

“What was?”

Madara pulls back, just slightly, to look up at him. “The hair.”

He flushes, glancing away. “It was a heat of the moment thing.” A thought crosses his mind and he looks back. “Why? Did you not like it? I’m sor—”

A finger to his lips halts his word vomit before it can fall and a smile tugs at the Uchiha’s expression.

“Well, I didn’t hate it, but… You might have to fight me if you want to do it again.”

A dangerous glint sparks to life in Madara’s gaze, and Hashirama smiles something wicked as a challenge alights in his chest at the image the man’s words present. Now, that he can do.

He leans over, pressing his lips into the other’s as he feels a second wind stirring within him. 

Madara smiles—smirks, really—rolling onto his back and pulling Hashirama with him.

They settle, smiling and nipping at one another’s lips when they feel it. The sudden, abrupt rush of chakra has their internal systems screaming. That has them both tensing and freezing. 

Dark hatred. Something so vile it makes his stomach roll.

Terrifying, truly. 

He barely has time to blink before Madara’s out from under him, rushing to dress far faster than he can perceive.

He follows hastily, cursing himself for his strewn clothes. Not the smartest of decisions for the midst of a mission, but—

Madara.

Who can blame him?

The Uchiha slams the door open just in time for a loud, trembling snarl to echo through the air. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and he sees trepidation fill Madara’s frame.

Whatever that was, it’s not good.

Black eyes find his, just once, and he nods, accepting the plan Madara shoots his way.

The Uchiha disappears, going right and he flits out, heading left.

Red is the first thing he sees. Fire and—

Chakra?  

Callous and evil, is rolls over the lands in waves, making him nauseous. 

A demon, he realizes, landing on a branch of a tall tree. The Kitsune of legend.

Big, it is. The size of a mountain at the very least and angry. So angry.

He never thought he’d come across a bijū by chance, let alone one rampaging as such. What was wrong with it? Why was it so angry?

It roars, loud and echoing as it turns, its nine tails leveling the ground with a single swipe.

Such power.

Madara appears kilometers away, staring up at the beast and Hashirama Shushins over before he can think better.

“Can you capture it?”

Madara glances over with a look of discontent but he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by a smirk instead.

“Are you underestimating me?”

He sweats. 

“I—what? No, of course not! My Love—”

“Hush it.”

He does.

“Of course I can capture the thing, but… the question is, do you want to?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head. “Is that… not the plan?”

Red eyes roll, flicking back as a shockwave rolls over the land. Trees sway, rocks crumble, and they remain standing due to their mature chakra control.

“It is the most powerful of the bijū. If we take it now before the others and the other Kage find out, discourse it sure to sow no matter what peace talks we speak.”

He glances back to the giant fox as it snarls, turning to face them finally, still quite some distance away. Its eyes are red, alight with hatred and anger, while its muzzle is raised to show its dangerous, dripping fangs.

“What’s wrong with it?” he ponders out loud and Madara’s head tilts accordingly.

“People,” the Uchiha mutters.

“What?”

“There are… people crawling on it.”

“People?”

“Shinboi. Two of them. They’re— eating him?”

He snaps his head over, squinting yet still unable to make anything out. 

The Kyuubi swipes a paw, desolating the nearby area and Hashirama sees that he’s attempting to get at his own body.

A demon, it is, but…

He still feels a bit of empathy.

“Should we help it?”

Madara turns to him with his brows raised incredulously.

He flushes.

“I mean, we won’t capture it now, but if it’s being eaten alive—”  

Shaking his head, Madara turns back. “You’re too soft-hearted. It’s a demon.”  

“What if it’s eaten completely?”

Madara snorts. “Doubtful. It’s huge and surely it’ll beat its foe on its own.”

But still. 

It howls and Hashirama can hear the underlying pain now alongside the hate and anger. It does soemthing to him. Makes his emotions rise and his inner conscious yell. 

The sound was wrong.  

“We shouldn’t fight,” Madara continues, but Hashirama’s barely paying attention as another painful cry erupts and he winces. “We need to conserve our energy and—”

Shockwaves resonate and trees fall. They both have to hold on this time despite their chakra control and Hashirama jumps down before he can think better of it.

“Hashirama!”

He darts forth, getting as close as he can before slapping his hands together and connecting them to the ground. The mark on his forehead grows as he slips into Sage Mode with fluid ease, wooden blocks sprouting from the ground immediately after. 

The Kyuubi’s eyes land on him at the disruption. Red and slitted, it growls, snarling.

“Not another one!”

He blinks, realizing it can talk, but shakes it away as he forces the wood to rise up, up, up until it stands taller than the massive being before folding in on it.

The Kyuubi howls, loud and angry and he’s suppressed, forced to the ground with a thump.   

Madara’s at his side in an instant as the fox struggles against his restraints, futile in its feat. 

His Mokuton allows for the suppression of chakra. A new ability, something he’s barely practiced with as it was never quite needed before, but powerful. Still, it takes his complete focus to keep the fox trapped.

With the danger of the Kyuubi’s rampage gone, they can focus on the two bodies that slide from the fox’s neck.

Big and looming, one with silver hair while the other blonde, twins and they stare at him with a furrowed brow.

“The Kitsune is ours,” the one with silver hair states.

“Our kill.” The blonde nods.

Madara tenses and Hashirama spares him a single glance.

“They’re dangerous,” his lover mutters quietly enough that only he can hear. “It seems that their chakra has… merged with the Kyuubi’s.”

Startled, his grip slackens slightly on his control and the Kyuubi struggles. He almost frees himself before Hahsirama doubles down, restoring his hold.

“You impudent humans! Release me! Why can you not leave me alone?!” it roars.

Hashirama’s brow furrows.

He really didn’t know it could talk.

“Let it go,” the silver-haired one speaks, stepping forth as a cloak of red hatred appears over him. Whiskers sprout across their faces and their lips blacken with a snarl.

“It belongs to our village,” the blonde states.

“Madara,” he mutters, sweating slightly. “I cannot take them while suppressing the Kyuubi.”

His lover sighs, annoyed as his eyes flash red. “This is why I said to leave it be.”

He winces and opens his mouth to apologize but the Uchiha it fluttering off, growing an air of blue that surrounds him completely. It’s the armor of chakra he uses in battle quite frequently—Susano’o, Hashiama believes it’s called. 

The twins brace themselves on all fours against the ground as they prepare for an attack, tensing a moment before they take off. The three clash, and Hashirama curses himself silently. 

He should be out there, fighting alongside Madara.

If Madara gets hurt, it’s his fault.

Fuck.

He tightens the wooden bars against the Kyuubi, making him snarl and thrash.

“You human scum. Release me!” it snarls and Hashirama winces again for a different reason.

Bijū, as far as he knew, weren’t sentient. They were mindless balls of evil that held massive chakra reserves. Powerful and dangerous. If ever stumbled across, it was flee on sight for they were stronger than most shinobi combined.

This was not the tales he was told growing up.

The Kyuubi no Kitsune wasn’t sentient.  

It was a monster.

So why is it talking?

His stomach turns.

With its head forced to the ground, the Kyuubi’s red eye lands on him finally, lighting in recognition.  

“Ashura! What have you done?!”

It takes him a few moment to understand that the Kyuubi was speaking to him.

“Who?!” he calls because his name wasn’t Ashura. Who was Ashura? What?

The Kyuubi howls, eyes falling into something akin to betrayal, and his heart sinks.

“This is not what was supposed to happen,” the Kyuubi snarls, struggling vainly against the wooden hold. “Why have you forsaken Father’s way?!”

Utterly confused, Hashirama stares.

A loud boom a moment before wind rushes past and he turns to find Madara’s chakra armor pinned down by the two red glowing twins. Weapons he’s never seen pierce the Susano’o and his heart sinks.

Fear easts him.

“Madara!”

His resolve slackens and the Kyuubi rises from the ground.

“I’m fine! Focus!” the Uchiha snarls, pressing back as black flames flare to life on the red chakra cloaks. 

The twins snarl with anger and pain, but it’s enough to have Hashirama turning back and suppressing them again.

The Kyuubi snarls.

“Release me!”

“I can’t!” he replies for some reason. How odd was that? Explaining to a demon. “We have to defeat them first and we can’t have you accidentally stepping on us!”

The Kitsune snarls but seems appeased a little. A slitted red eye stares at him for a long while as its lips slowly fall from a growl.

“Then you will release me?”

“Yes,” he replies, knowing Madara will vehemently deny it, but he’ll deal with that later.

The Kyuubi falls to the forest with a thump, causing everyone to float from the ground a few feet before landing again.

“What’s going on?” Madara snarls as weapons clash.

Realizing the demon fox is lying down, staring at them rather than trying to free himself, Hashirama fumbles. Slowly, he tests the waters, relaxing his body and stepping away. When the Kyuubi doesn’t move, doesn’t struggle, he flits off to his lover’s side.

“What are—you idiot!” Madara snarls as the Susano’o envelops him. “What about the Kyuubi?!”

“He’s not struggling anymore,” he placates, eyeing the two foes who dart at them with incredible speed—enough to rival Izuna’s truthfully. They bang against the armor harshly, weapons piercing but never getting in completely as Susano’o holds.

Madara stumbles and Hashirama finally realizes his eyes are bleeding.  

“My Love, your eyes!”

Tears of blood trail down pale cheeks, and Hashirama can only stare in horror.

“Not important! They’re powered by the Kyuubi’s chakra somehow. It’s like fighting two miniature kitsunes. Help me suppress them.”

He forces himself to focus, hands falling into the signs before slamming against the ground. 

Wood sprouts but they’re too fast. They evade with each growth and he’s not experienced enough with the speed to catch.

“Lead them into a trap,” he states.

Madara glances at him. “I’m not leaving you.”

He smiles, eyes falling shut as sweat dribbles down his temple. “My Love, I will be fine. They’re too fast for my Mokuton to capture them. I need you to lure.”

Madara wavers, eyes falling back to the red and black blurs. They had tails now—three of them.

“I don’t know why Amaterasu isn’t burning them,” the Uchiha snarls, the Susano’o armor slashing quickly, to which they both dodge and land on opposite sides. Madara staggers, and Hashirama darts forth to righten him. 

“Are you okay?”

Truthfully, Madara looks quite taxed. His eyes were bleeding, his brow glistening with sweat. Far worse than he has ever looked after battling him throughout the years.

Strained.

Worry eats at him, but there’s no time to linger as Madara pulls away.

“Fine. I’ll lure them into your wooden cell. Be prepared.”

The blue glow of Madara’s chakra retracks as the Uchiha darts forth before Hashirama can voice complaint. 

He readies himself instantly as the Uchiha garners the twins’ attention. They snarl in unison, whiskers growing and chakra pulsating a mere moment before they attack simultaneously. Wood plunges from the ground, entraping just as Madara’s eyes whirl. 

Susano’o’s sword drops down, flaming with black and cutting the wooden cage in the process. 

Hashirama’s technique allowed them the few seconds needed—the mere moments of chakra suppression enough to get rid of the red cloaks, allowing the sword to slice through the twins’ bodies with ease.

The blue chakra dissipates as soon as their enemies' lives are taken and Hashirama rushes over, capturing him before he can hit the forest floor.

Immediately, the Kyuubi starts to press against his restraints and he feels his temple throb.

“My Love.”

“I’m fine,” Madara mutters, eyes squeezing shut as he rubs his head. “Merely a headache.”

When they open again, they look at the sky, black and unfocused.

An inkling of something being off lingers in the back of Hashirama’s mind at the sight, but he brushes it away as the Kyuubi howls again.

“Release me now!”

Reluctantly, he complies, and the fox rises to his full height, shaking his orange coat free.

“Why did you do that?!” Madara snarls, glaring at him and pulling away.

“I—He—I—”

“You two!”

They turn as the Kyuubi focuses on them, still glaring but not snarling any longer. Calculating is that demonic, red gaze.

“Ashura. Indra. You have come to terms once more?”

“Who?” he calls again. “My name is Hashirama! And this is Madara!”

The Kyuubi’s head lowers as he seems to gather a better look before he freezes. A Sharigan pattern swirls to life in his gaze, and Hahsirama glances over to see Madara struggling futilely.

“What are—”

“We must go now—”

“Madara!”

His lover finally looks at him, brow furrowing. “What?”

“Don’t control him.”

The furrow deepens. “What?”  

“Don’t control him. I want… to talk.”

Incredulous, his lover stares before laughing hysterically. “You’re insane, Hashirama. It’s a demon—”  

“It talks. It feels. If it’s truly evil, I was assess for myself.”

Madara stares a moment before he shakes his head. “You’re so gullible.”

“Madara,” he states in a firmer tone.

He holds his lover’s gaze unwaveringly, staring into the infamous Sharingan without a hint of fear.

Finally, Madara looks away, red falling to black as he huffs.

“I’m out of chakra anyway. If he attacks, it’s on you.”

He gives his lover a bright smile while the Kyuubi snarls and rises again.

“You humans and your tricks! You never change, Indra! Always so vile!”

Madara scoffs but doesn’t comment as Hashirama steps forth.

“Kyuubi, I—”

“That is not my name, Ashura! Why feign ignorance?!”

Hashirama’s jaw clicks shut as the Kyuubi—not Kyuubi? But it has nine tails? He’s confused—snarls defensively.

“I told you I’m not this Ashura you speak of.”

“Nonsense! Your chakra impressions are identical.”

He glances down at himself as if that would answer the question the fox arose, but it doesn’t. Obviously, and he shakes his head to clear it away.

“My name is Hashirama,” he calls, and he swears the fox’s brow twitches in irritation. “And I have never met you.”

The Kyuubi’s silent for a while, slitted eyes flickering up and down his form until he finally seems to come to a decision. He lowers himself once more.

“If Indra tries to control me again, I will kill you two, brothers or not.”

Now, that raises a lot of questions, but Madara’s scoff derails him.

“You can try—”

“Madara!”

His lover glares but eventually looks away.

He sighs.

“If you have a name, what is it?”

The Kitsune continues to stare until, “You… truly do not know?”

He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve never met you, so how could I?”

“Your chakra—”

“As similar as it may be, I’m not who you believe me to be. Our paths have never crossed. You’re a mere myth to me. A demon.”

That raises the kitsune’s ire again as he stands.

“You humans and your lies! You forget the very origin in which you come, damning us all in the process!”

Not quite understanding the sudden shout, he figures the fox probably didn’t appreciate being called a demon.

How peculiar.

“What’s your name?” he asks again, trying to tempt the kitsune away from his anger.

A snarl but no forward attack.

“…Kurama is the name Father gave me.”

“Kurama,” he mutters, smiling brightly. “It’s a nice name.”

Startled, the fox seems to be as his gaze narrows. “You truly are not Ashura?”

He rubs his neck again, eyes falling shut as he smiles wider. “Sorry, but no. I’m Hashirama,” he repeats.

Kurama continues to observe and ponder. Finally, he states, “So it would seem. What have you come for, Hashirama?”

“Come for?”

Kurama’s arm rises and he waves toward the mountain in the distance. “My home, my temple. Why have you come? Are you like them? Those twins? Coming to steal me away?”

He says nothing because… well… Kurama’s not wrong.

Wincing, he bows his head. 

“I didn’t know you were nice.”

“I’m not nice!”

“Sentient, then,” he reasons and Madara interjects in disbelief.

“Have you changed your mind?” 

He turns to the Uchiha with pleading eyes. “He’s not a demon,” he reasons. “Not like we thought.”

“We still need his power.”

“He’s not evil.”

In retaliation to his words, Kurama’s aura fluctuates, freezing them both as hatred and callousness flood the area.

“You are just the same as the others,” the fox snarls, betrayal stinging his voice. “You wished to capture me.”

“That was before!”

“What is the difference?! You planned to bind me just as those brothers devoured my flesh for power!”

He winces harder. Undeniable that is. 

Regret eats him.

“I’m so sorry!” he calls before he can help it. 

Madara stares at him as if he’s lost his head, and perhaps he has, but at least it calms Kurama some. He bows low, unsure if the fox will understand the custom.

“I apologize for my wrongful intent of capturing you! Had I known you were not a demon, I wouldn’t have fathomed—”

“Hashirama,” Madara snarls.

“But I beg an audience with you!”

It’s quiet while he lingers in his position. After a moment, he stands, glancing anxiously at the Kitsune.

No longer angry, it seems, Kurama stares down at them.

“You wish to speak to me after everything?”

He strains, “I didn’t know—”  

“What do you want to discuss?”

His breath catches at the unpredicted outcome. Mind racing, he stutters for words.

“I—are the others like you? The Bijū?”

Lips raise, and Kurama snarls. “They are our brothers! What do you think?”

“See, that. I don’t know what you mean by that! I’m human.”

“Forgotten. You’ve all forgotten. How horrendous!”

“Then explain it.”

“Why should I? It’s your own fault,” the fox mutters petulantly and he huffs.

How could someone think that this was pure evil incarnate? Laughable, it is in retrospect. 

Kurama says they’ve forgotten, but forgotten what?  

He shakes his head. That wasn’t the question he wanted answered yet. Yet.

“Are they, though? The Bijū?”

“Do you wish to capture them too?!”

“I did,” he admits, eyes falling to the ground in shame before he forces them back. “But if they’re like you, I won’t.”

“Despicable!”

“Just answer—”

“Of course they’re like me! We’re the Bijū.”

He glances at Madara at that.

His lover glares and huffs. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, raising his voice so Kurama knows it’s directed at him.

“Ashura—”

“—I’m not Ashura—-”

“—the youngest and Indra the eldest. Two sons of the great Sage of Six Paths. Your father.”

Hashirama stares at Kurama, who glares down at them.

Madara scoffs. “We’re not brothers.”

“Ashura and Indra were,” Kurama states stubbornly. 

“We’re not,” Hashirama replies. “Nothing of the sort.”

He shudders at the mere thought.

The fox’s orange head turns away, nose rising high in the air and Hashirama bites back a smile. Really? A demon? This ornery, prideful thing?

“Whatever that,” he carries on. “How are we related to you?”  

Red slitted eyes look back. “Father made us just as he made you.”

“Probably not,” Madara mutters and Hashirama huffs lightly.

“Despite whatever bias you have,” Kurama states, standing as he lowers his head to their level. “You are Ashura and Indra. Your chakra signatures are identical.”

Hashirama contemplates that. Chakra signatures were unique. No one person ever had the same one which allowed for experienced sensors to accurately identify unknown nin. The Bijū were old, too. Reincarnation, he supposes, isn’t off the table but—

Madara catches his eye, and he shoves everything away.

No. They were not brothers in any sense.

“Well, regardless—”

“You’re brothers and your history is deep but forgotten.”

“Will you tell us then?”

Slitted eyes glare, and Kurama snarls. “How pathetic. You ostracise my siblings, vye for our powers, and oppress us in the same breath. All in ignorance, and then you have the audacity to ask—”  

“How are we supposed to change anything if we don’t know?” he cuts off, and Kurama’s maw clicks shut. “Look, I know we’ve forgotten, and I know we’ve messed up. I’m sorry for that, but despite what you say, I wasn’t there. Human I am, and I can’t help that. Our lives our short, and our spirits fickle. However, if you would tell us, I’m certain I can fix something now.”

Silence lingers as the kitsune stares assessingly.

“Sure you’re not Ashura,” the fox mutters beneath his breath as he stands. “Follow me.” He turns on his heel then and heads for the mountain he called home.

“Why are we trusting it?” Madara snarls, halting Hashirama as he sets forth.

“Because he’s not a demon, and we’ve obviously wronged him,” he states placatingly.

“And how do you know that, Hashirama?” Madara’s grip tightens, and his eyes flash. “He’s—”

“Not going to kill us. He could have done it moments ago, yet he spoke to us civilly. A monster we call them, but what if they’re not?”

“You’re too—”

“Sensative? Gullible? I know, but… you’re with me, aren’t you?”

Madara’s glare finally falls away, and Hashirama smiles, clasping his lover’s hand.

“Come. Let us hear what the infamous Kyuubi no Kitsune has to offer, shall we? We can make decisions after.”

Madara follows, their hands never parting.

*   *   *

Kurama leads them to the mountain. Plain and bland, trees fill the valley, and Hashirama’s a bit perplexed as to where the temple is supposed to be.

Madara, on the other hand, tenses the next moment.

“Hashira—”

They step over a barrier into a new world. 

Torches cast a golden glow across gray steps swealterd in the darkness of night. Bright red torii guide the path to the top, where an enormous temple resides. Glamorous in appearance, red and yellows reflect down toward them. Wind chimes sing, and foxes laugh.

“Kurama-Sama has returned!”

“The threat is gone!”

“Yipee!”

“Rejoyce!”

“Kurama-Sama!”

“Kura-Sama!”

Foxes rush them left and right, encasing them in a field of oranges, reds, and whites. They yip with joy at the sight of their leader? Monarch? Head? Many gush, vying for Kurama’s attention, while others speak rapidly over one another.

Spirits, they must be. Or summons, but who is powerful enough to garner a fox summon?

Interest plagues him as Kurama leads them up the steep path to the temple.

Kits fall onto the giant fox as they go, giggling and yipping. They tug at his ears with their teeth, climbing across his head and back in playful prances. 

Surprisingly, the Kyuubi no Kitsune doesn’t bat an eye, simply continuing the strenuous climb with no comment.

Hashirama beams.

If he had any doubt before about Kurama being evil incarnate, it’s gone with the mere sight of the kits crawling all over his looming form.

Madara snorts.

“Who are they?!” one fox asks when they’re caught sight of. Five tails it holds, the tips dyed red with a lushious white coat and piercing blue eyes.

“My brothers,” Kurama replies, earning shocked gasps and incredulous outcries.

“What?!”

“But we thought you only had eight!”

“And they’re human!”  

Kurama grumbles something under his breath as they finally breach the top, clambering into the temple without a second thought.

Hashirama stares, amazed by the colors and beauty. Such a warm atmosphere. A giant fire in the middle rises tall, kissing the ceiling but surprisingly not burning it, while golden decor fills the open area with blatant luxury.

Kurama takes his presumed designated spot behind the fire, slitted red eyes staring down at him.

He wishes to say the sight instills fear in him—it’s probably what Kurama is hoping for—but with the kits mawling him, it makes for an amusing scene. 

Two hold each of his ears between their teeth, their bodies jolt futilely as they try to uproot the appendages, one a yellow color and the other a soft gray. It looks like it hurts, but Kurama doesn’t so much as bat an eye to their vigorous pulls while another kit, white like the kitsune from earlier, sits directly in the middle of Kurama’s head, mirroring the Kyuubi’s posture of staring down at them. Two more, orange and red, play tag across his body, chirping and laughing as they chase one another over shoulder blades, down a spine and back up again.

His emotions must read clearly as Kurama snarls, “Stop laughing!”

The kits don’t even bat an eye at his vilolent exclamation.

Madara snorts again, delving into subtle hysterics.

Hashirama quickly follows.

Disgruntled, the fox seems to be as he snarls at the young ones now.

“Get off! Get off! You’re ruining my image!”

The ones tugging his ears let go but don’t jump down. The ones playing chase come to sit on either side of the one mirroring their leader, staring down at them with slitted eyes.

None get off.

Kurama sighs, rubbing his temple with a clawed hand.

“They’re cute,” Hashirama can’t help but comment, earning a sharp glare.

“They are future kitsune. They are not cute.”  

The children growl their agreement, high pitched and adorable.

Madara turns away, shoulders shaking harshly.

Kurama growls.

“Stop it!”

He laughs harder, air not coming to him with ease anymore and he has to lean into Madara’s side to keep up right.

It takes a few minutes for him to sober, panting and shoulders still shaking lightly. 

Kurama looks done with them already, glaring with his lips raised to show his pointed teeth. It’s… surprisingly ineffective now that he’s seen the kits crawl all over him—they’re still there, by the way. Just mirroring the Kyuubi now.

“Okay, we’re through. Will you tell us what we wish to know?”

“Why should I after everything?!”

The kit in the middle stands, snarling. So vicious, so ferocious…

For a baby.

He bites his lip on a smile. 

“Come on,” he tries. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re an amazing grandfather.”

Madara chokes, and the Kyuubi howls in anger.

“Grandfather?! Just who do you take me for?!”

He laughs, biting it back the best he can as he lifts his hands in surrender. 

“Okay, okay. You win. I’ll stop.”

“No! Leave for your insolence! I wish to speak no longer!” 

Yet, the fox makes no moves to remove them.

“I implore that you tell me of what the Humans have forgotten so I can fix what needs to be fixed.”

The fire crackles as silence encases. Kurama appears to be calming down slowly as he stares at them.

Always staring, the fox is. 

Just what is he contemplating?

“You’re brothers. My brothers.”

“Not really, but I’ll hear you out just this once.”

Kurama carries on as if he never heard Hashirama’s words.

“Our father made us many years ago. You were born Ashura and him, Indra,” the fox states with a nod toward Madara. “And we, the Bijū. As Father neared death, he split us up. Divided us amongst the lands, erected temples with the intent that Humans worship us, not abuse us—that obviously didn’t last. As your and Indra’s feud for succession grew, passing through the generations, the Humans sought our strength more than ever. We tried to keep away from it, hiding in our shrines alone, but Humans are not anything if not stubborn. You’ve hunted us for milenia. Call us demons, monsters when, in reality, it’s your kind that are the true evil. Just like those brothers from before, you sought to harness my power blindly. Had you not been Ashura, I would have killed you where you stood for that arrogance alone.”

As Kurama’s voice trails off, echoing off the walls, many things eat at Hashirama.

Regret is a strong word, even stronger emotion and he feels it greatly. He may not be this Ashura, but it’s clear that he is, at the very least, a descendant of his and it’s his bloodline that’s caused this.

The Bijū, he’s never thought of them. Not really. Never needed to for he was strong enough to not need to rely on anything but himself. However, when the time came for a need of power, he, too, was no different than any of the other humans who hunted these beings.

If what Kurama said is true—he has no reason to doubt, honestly—it’s his fault, to an extent.

Guilt eats him as he frowns, staring at the ground. No apologies would be able to fix what they’ve broken, but, perhaps, it could be a start.

Still, the audacity he had to think he could still ask this Bijū for help. It makes him angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he states, jaw clenching. It was the very least he could do. The very start. “I’m sorry you all have gone through that. It’s not—I can’t feign ignorance, it’s true I didn’t know, but even still, it is no excuse.”

He looks up to find Kurama observing him unreadably. 

“I’ll make it right. Whatever I can do, I’ll do it.”

The fire cackles.

Slitted eyes stare.

He keeps his chin held high, taking responsibility for his actions.

The giant fox sighs.

“You… never change, Ashura. Be it Hashirama now, it appears you will always be the same.” A huff. “I suppose I can’t loathe that completely. Or you.”

“What can I—”

“What about you, Indra? What was your new name again?”

Madara squints slightly but his face is unreadable. Somewhat. Hashirama can see the slightest furrow of his brow, the barest hint of discourse.

“Madara, and what about me?”

“Are you sorry as well?”

“For what?”

Kurama’s lips raise and sharp teeth gleam. “You never change—”

“Why should I apologize for a life forgotten? That—Indra. You say he was me yet I have not a memory of his. I don’t know what went down or where it went wrong, but I can assure you that I don’t seek your powers. Not for myself, at least. We sought them as a means to establish peace across the lands, but since you have made you benevolence known, Hashirama is certain to not touch you. He’ll even vouch for you to the others, I know. If you wish for me to apologize for earlier, then I suppose that is reasonable but for a milenia long hate, that is not on me.”

“It’s on all of you humans!”

“Perhaps, but I am merely one.”

That seems to bring Kurama up short as the fox huffs, steam blowing from his mouth. He runs hot, it seems, in more ways than one.

“Madara,” he starts, but his lover gives him a glare before he can plead for Madara’s apology.

“It is not our fault, Hashirama. Your heart is too big. You take on everything and one day it will crush you.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” Madara scoffs, looking away. “And they say an Uchiha’s heart is the biggest,” are the muttered words that he barely picks up.

“Mada—”

“Enough,” Kurama snarls. “You have said your peace and I have said mine, now leave.”

Hashirama turns back, mind shifting. “We can’t leave yet.”

Red eyes flare.

“You haven’t said what I can do to fix this.”

Kurama calms. “You can’t take everything on yourself, Ash—Hashirama.”

“No, but I’m not alone.”

Madara scoffs again and this time, Kurama follows. 

“History states that—”

“Screw history,” he cuts the fox off. “And screw the future too. Why do we have to keep focusing on things out of our control when he can focus on the things that are?”  

He sees Madara glance at him from the corner of his eye but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“We are living in the present. The now is what mattes.”

Once again, silence reigns as the beings present seem to digest the words. 

The kits atop Kurama’s head doze but the white one is awake and observing without a peep. 

“Right now, I am on my way to make peace with other nations,” Hashirama continues. “I had originally planned to use you—all of you and I won’t deny it. I’ll take responsibility for my intent, but I have changed my mind. You are not what I once thought you were and, hopefully, I am not what you once thought I was. What I need now is a way to make things up to you and also a plan b, but that doesn’t concern you, I suppose. Human affairs, after all.”

“What if we make it his affairs too?” Madara interjects, head tilting slightly in thought.

Kurma growls. “Just what—”

“You said we treat you as monsters,” the Uchiha states. “But those are the rumors of our world. Unless that changes, that’s all you will be seen as. You’re strong. Pure chakra incarinte and powerful. You said there are temples—but where?”

“Why should I tell you my brothers’ locations?”

“Because you reside in Fire, meaning if it came to it, you could lend Konoha your power if needed.”

“As if I ever would—-”

“I said, if,” Madara snaps and the Kyuubi calms. “So your siblings must be in other countries as well. Our plan originally stemmed from binding you and giving you away to balance the power. Currently, Konoha is seen as a threat by the other nations. We’re too powerful and that causes fear, but with the Bijū we planned to change that. Obviously, that plan is inaccessible, so we must forge another.”

“What are you thinking,” he asks, seeing the wheels in Madara’s head whirl.

His lover smirks. “What if we get them to agree? Depending on their temples, the could be moved—-”

“—We will not—”  

“—or we could see if they’d be willing to ally themselves with the other nations.”

Hashirama ponders this while looking up at Kurama.

The Kyuubi glares, eyes alight in challenge and Hashirama shakes his head.

“I cannot ask them for anything else after what we’ve done.”

“Then you won’t. I will,” Madara states, turning his head before Hashirama can pick his jaw back up. “What do you say Kyu—Kurama? Sama,” he adds in an almost after thought.

“You have the audacity to try and bind me and then ask me for my assistance?!”

Unflinching, Madara replies, “Yes.”

Kurama stares a good long while before a huff leaves his mouth. Quiet and low, yet unmistakable.

Startled, the kits atop his head stand and stare with wide eyes.

“Kurama-Sama laughed!” the white one says, astonished.

“I did not!” the Kyuubi replies, but the kits aren’t listening as they jump for joy and chirp. One looks down at Madara.

“Do it again! Make him laugh!”

“No one can make him laugh! Please?!”

Madara appears uncomfortable with the attention, but doesn’t back down. 

“Quiet, kits, or I’ll kick you out and tell your mothers you’re misbehaving.” That does the trick as they sit but their eyes are pleading as they stare at the Uchiha who avoids their gaze.

Hashirama smiles despite everything. 

“That was sweet,” he mutters.

“Hush it,” his lover hisses. “I don’t even know what I did.”

“I’d say you made him rather fond.”

“Me?” Madara asks incredulously. “He doens’t even like me.”

Hashirama’s smile widens. “Or maybe he’s just emotionally constipated like someone.”  

That earns him a glare but he’s in too good of spirit to let it get to him.

“Enough, enough,” Kurama snaps, earning their attention once more. “What makes you think we’ll even agree?”

“I don’t,” Madara replies, “I don’t even have anything to offer you except the promise of a better future.”

Kurama’s head tilts slightly and Hashiram’s too.

“Right now you are isolated and alone. Feared by all, hated by some, but if you decided to ally with, say, Konoha since your temple is within the Land of Fire, then things would change. Not immediately, we are, after all, Human, but they would change. Slowly. Hate would ebb, fear would fall away and you would be worshiped like your— our father wished. What more could you hope for?”

“A pipe dream,” the fox scoffs. 

“A pipe dream, sure,” Madara concedes. “I’ve had quite a few of those in my life and you know what?” Black eyes flash and Madara smiles. Not a vindictive smile and not a smirk. A genuine one that makes Hahsirama long to sweep his lover into his arms and never let him go. “We made that pipe dream a reality. Now, we’re simply trying to keep it.”

Grumbling, the fox mutters, “What makes you think I’d even want that?”

“If you do not, what about your brothers?”

Kurama looks away at that, a tsk leaving his mouth.

Madara smirks. 

“You don’t have to do it,” Hashirama interjects because he needs to.

Madara glares and he gives an apologetic look before turning back to the Kyuubi who gazes curiously down. 

“If you choose not to accept, I’ll ensure you are not bothered. Your brothers too. For as long as I live, you shall be free.”

Gears turn in the fox’s head as he stares at them. Pondering, and thinking, he’s silent.

Wind chimes sing in the background, the echoes of laughs and yells bouncing off the open walls of the temple while the Kyuubi no Kitsune considers his words.

“You…” Kurama starts after some time, finally turning his gaze away from them the first time that night. “Will die inevitbly.”

Harsh, but okay. Sure.

“We will.”

“So the peace you can assure won’t last,” Kurama offers and Hashirama’s brow furrows.

“I will make sure—”

“So it is probably in the Bijū’s best interest to go with the first option, no?”

Dumbfounded, he stares while Madara smiles a wicked smile.

“I’ll speak to my brothers but I promise nothing.”

“You don’t—” he starts but is cut off.

“Quiet,” Kurama snarks. “The peace you offer is tempory. The one your brot—partner offers is eternal.”

“Yes,” Madara agrees.

“Just how Father wanted and… I’m sure Matatabi and Saiken will be ecstatic. They, for some reason, still like your kind. The rest are wary. They won’t take to your offer lightly.”

“And that’s okay,” Hashirama commends. “I will give them time to decide. If the other Kage won’t agree…” he trails off, thinking of a plan.

“Then we will make them,” Madara concludes.

Kurama flicks a few claws. “I care not for the affairs of Humans. Just stop trying to invade my temple.”

“Of course,” he agrees easily, mind whirling as he thinks of new laws to implement. New relationships to build.

Exhaustion hits him promptly, the adrenaline from ealier finally wearing off. There are many things to do, many more to discuss but—

They’ve spoken to the Kyuubi. The most powerful of the Bijū and came to an agreement.  

What a turn of events.

“I suppose we shall take our leave then. I will be in contact with you shortly to discuss arrangements—if you even agree.”

Kurama grunts and the kits atop his head stand in excitement.

“Can we play with them now?!”

Another grunt as Kurama lies down, head resting on his paws as he curls into himself.

Taking that as agreement, the babies fly down and are at their sides immediately. They tug their clothes with their teeth in an attempt to get them to the exit.

“I—”

“You may stay,” Kurama calls as they are led out. “No Human can enter the barrier unless I allow it. You are safe. One night and then you leave.”

Madara says nothing but Hashirama turns and bows low.

“Thank you again and I’m sorry.”

One blood red eye peers open, something akin to fondness filling its gaze before it closes once more.

The Kyuubi doesn’t reply.

*   *   *

The kits lead them through a different exit than the one they came and immediately, they’re immersed into a sea of night life. 

Foxes run about, chatting and chirping. More kits chase one another down a long, paved street lit with a warm, yellow glow. Booths and buildings rise tall, and sound never ceases.

The white kit tugs at his pants harshly while the yellow and gray one tug at Madara’s.

His lover looks strained, barely refraining from punting the poor creatures and he stifles a laugh.

“Dis ‘ay!” says the white one with Hashirama’s pants in his mouth. Blue eyes pierce up at him. 

“Pay!” says the yellow one while the gray growls his agreement.

He spies three tails on the white one as they stick straight into the air, whereas the yellow and gray one merely have two. The orange and red kits hold only one as they dart past in a blur, yipping.

“Now, wait a—”

Before he can get further, arms wrap around his neck and a soft body presses to his chest. Flush they come and he freezes, breath halting as he processes the lips pressing to the column of the throat.

“You are… Kurama-Sama’s brothers, no?” says a feminine voice.

Killing intent rolls across the ground immediately but the—woman? There were no humans here, though?—doesn’t flinch at the chakra pulses. Instead, she squeezes closer, ignorant of her own momentary demise at an Uchiha’s hand.

Hashirama’s arms lift into the air immediately, away from the woman’s lush body, as he tries to step away. She follows because of course she does, and he hastily looks at Madara.

Black eyes glare, and he swallows thickly.

“My Love—”

The woman turns her head to follow his gaze, offering a seductive smile. “Jealous? Don’t worry, you can join too.”

Black eyes fall to red, and a blue glow lights up the area.

Hashirama sweats.  

“Madara—”

It seems that the woman’s sense of danger finally kicks in as she steps away, frowning. Red, slitted eyes flick back and forth between them before realization dawning in her gaze.

“Oh. You’re like that.” She turns on her heel without another word, throwing her black hair over her shoulder with a hmph. “How incesteous.”

Hashirama’s jaw drops as he watches the woman walk away, shifting in a midnight black fox and prancing into the distance.

Madara sighs, aggrieved. 

Abruptly, a hand fists the top of his armor and he’s pulled close to a scowling face.

“You let her do that.”

His eyes widen in panic. “I didn’t—!”

“Well, you certainly didn’t throw her off!”

“I was startled—”  

“If I see that again, there will be nothing of you left, do you understand?”

They’re calm, the words.

He swallows thickly, apprehension eating him. Nodding, Madara shoves him away as he glares at anything and everything. 

Great. He’s in a bad mood now.

Tentatively, the kits come back, having run off at the wom—vixen’s appearance, no longer as excited as before, but their tails still wagging in an upbeat manner.

“I thought she bewitched you!” says the yellow excitedly, brown eyes wide in amazement. 

“Yeah, I thought you were dead for sure! She would’ve eaten you whole!” replies the gray, matching the yellow’s enthusiasm.

The orange and red chirp their agreement animalistically. Perhaps they couldn’t speak?

“Please, you can see the thread of fate connecting them. Of course she wouldn’t be able to bewitch him,” says the white and the others gasp.

“We can’t see it!”

“Why can you?!”

The white kit smirks. “Maybe if you gained more tails, you’d be able to see it too!”

The yellow growls and pounces, rolling them across the street and the gray quickly joins the fight.

The other two linger, sitting by their feet.

After a moment of watching the kits rough house, he turns to Madara. “Where… should we go for the night?”

“We should leave.”

Short, clipped, and to the point. He winces, nodding as his eyes flick about for an exit. Best not to argue.

“Or you could stay here,” starts another feminine voice abruptly. 

They tense and turn, relaxing slightly when they catch sight of a familiar fox standing behind them. It’s the white one from earlier with five tails and azure eyes.

“Mama!” exclaims the white kit as he finally tosses the other two off him. He darts over and the white vixen nuzzles him in greeting.

Her eyes dart up to them.

“Um, what?” he asks dumbly.

Assessingly, she stares, glancing between him and Madara and back again.

“I said you could just stay. Kurama-Sama has given his permission, so you might as well make the best of it within the barriers of his protection. You’ll be safe here from the other humans.”

“There are others?” he asks, alarmed. He hadn’t sensed any and Madara’s furrowed brow says he didn’t, either.

“There always are. Always flitting through and killing pointlessly. There aren’t any nearby now, but you never know.”

Damn. The vixen has a point.

“There’s an inn at the end of the street. If you manage to make it, you can stay for the night.”

“‘If’?” Madara asks, black eye narrowing on her.

She smirks and her kit laughs, high pitched and childlike.

“Good luck,” she mutters, picking her child up by his scruff.

“Mommmm,” is the whined reply. “I’m not a kit anymore! I have three tails now! And besides, Kurama-Sama said we could play with them!”

She doesn’t listen as she trots off.

The others linger back, glancing between the mother and them with torn expressions, but one glare from the vixen has them hastily following.

How endearing. 

“I don’t like how she said that,” Madara mutters, taking a step back. “Foxes are tricky.”

Hashirama glances down the road, then behind him. For some reason, the path to the temple looks longer now. Strenuous, too. Steeper steps, a higher hill. Utterly exhausting.

“I don’t think it will hurt anything,” he says after a moment’s contemplation, turning back.

A glare but he soothes it with a smile, collecting his lover’s hand and threading their fingers.

“Come. Let us see how we fare in a kitsune’s world.”

Their trek starts simple. Quiet and unnoticed but as they seemingly step over another invisible barrier, there’s suddenly a sign on their backs saying, ‘Look! Humans! Come and see us!’

They’re gawked at by many and Hashirama feels a flush crawl up his neck from the attention. Some stop and stare while others yip and chirp.

“Humans! Come enjoy our delicious white hare!”

“We have badger here!” 

Snickers erupt.

“Ooo, our brothel is sure to be to your tastes!”

Madara glares in the direction of the last one and Hashirama hastens their pace.

The inn, still so far and so distant, doesn’t close in and Madara visibly begins to vent his frustrations, scowling and glaring.

Hashirama momentarily panics, not wanting his lover to lose his cool within the streets with multiple kitsune gawking at them but also not wanting him to be angry in general.

A cranky Madara is never a fun one, but…

He can’t help but love him.

“My Love, why don’t we—”

“Hey, you two!” is a sudden shout, and they turn to find an orange fox, ordinary in appearance, barking at them from the threshold of a vibrant and colorful building. It smirks, showing all teeth. “Come in and eat something! Only the best for Kurama-Sama’s esteemed brothers!”

Foxes nearby chirp and snicker.

Madara’s gaze narrows, but Hashirama’s stomach chooses that moment to growl. Black eyes turn to him and he smiles sheepishly.

“We forwent dinner.”

“Cause you couldn’t keep it in your pants,” is the snarked reply, making him flush.

He leans in, dipping his head low to say, “You seemed quite willing with my fist in your hair and my cock deep in your guts.”

Pale ears redden instantly and not even Madara’s glare can dissuade how flustered he is.

Hashirama smirks, tugging their linked hands toward the opening. Call him entranced, but he longs to see the inside. The promise of curiosity and the whispers of pleasure speak to him as he goes.

“Only for dinner,” Madara grumbles. “I wish for a bath and sleep.”

He beams, and into the building they go.

The fox chirps, excited as he leads them into the throws of the crowd within. The smell of sake and sweetness assaults them instantly as do the sounds of laughter and bells. Bright lights—yellows, pinks, and reds flash and roll over the area. Foxes—some in human form and some not—delve up into sections, all surrounding specific areas that make him curious as to what.

“What’re they doing?” he asks as the fox leads them to an empty table.

Brown eyes flash with mischief before it’s hidden beneath a benign smile.

“They are our esteemed customers partaking in the offers of our establishment.”

“And what’s that?” is Madara’s wry response.

“Gambling!”

Hashirama’s head turns as they pass the nearest table. Tokens of some kind are piled up in front of the presumed players while cards reside in the hands of the human-foxes. Each one smiling and talking, all the while their eyes shining with anticipation and excitement. 

Curious, he is.

Madara glares. “We don’t—”

“Here is your table,” interrupts the fox, nudging them into their respective seats with his dark nose. “Your server will be with you shortly, and should you choose to join a different table, we’ll find you.”

“That won’t be—”

“Okay, thank you,” he cuts off, eyes flicking.

Madara turns to him and he offers another placating smile.

“Wonderful! Enjoy!” is the chirpped response before the fox dips into the crowd.

“We’re not staying here longer than a meal, Hashirama. I mean it.”

“Of course,” he replies, nodding earnestly. “No longer than a meal.”

For some reason, Madara doesn’t seem to believe him.

*   *   *

Raucous laughter echoes off the walls as the chips located in the center of the table are pushed to his side. Many gazes, red, brown, and yellow glare at him as he smiles widely, collecting his prize with the scoop of an arm.

Mahjong is an interesting game. One he was never able to partake in for his clan duties occupied every moment of his life, but now that he’s played a few rounds, he finds himself entranced.

Thrilling, it is, the stakes of losing everything or winning it all. He could get used to it.

By the third round, he was enraptured and by the sixth, hooked. It didn’t help that his tablemates were pleasant to play with, laughing and goading. Five surround him, foxes but in human form, unearthly beautiful.

“Another round, shall we?” he chortles and the foxes present hum their agreement.

“You’re not winning another one,” snaps one human-fox with orange hair and yellow eyes.

“Yeah! It’ll be my win this time,” says another with gray hair and brown eyes.

“Stupid outsiders,” mutters the last, with brown hair and brown eyes.

Madara’s head lolls on his shoulder, nose skimming against the column of his throat as the man nuzzles and he lowers himself slightly as the dealer shuffles the small, white tiles.

Asleep, his lover was, for some time now. It seems he gave up on trying to pry Hashirama from the table after his third victory and after two more rounds, his head found permanent residence on Hashirama’s shoulder as he slept.

Odd.  

The thought crosses his mind briefly before fluttering away.

Whatever. Madara is tired. Of course he’d sleep. Shinobi need it no matter what hours they press.

He’d never be so vulnerable. So open. Not in public.   

The tiles are dished and his trepidation is forgotten as he smiles wide.

“Shall we?”

Foxes chirp, humans laugh, and Hashirama wins another round.

Exhilarating.  

He could get used to this.

“Say, Hashirama,” the human-fox across from him starts as the round ends. Uwaki, he believes, is the name that was given. Tiles clink together as they are shuffled and the bright lights of the establishment gleam. “Why don’t we make this last round worth it, hmm?”

“What do you mean? We have many more to go!”

The human-fox leans in, his orange hair falling over his shoulders just slightly. He offers a closed-eye smile.

“This will be our last, so why don’t we make it exciting?”

The smiles of the other human-foxes present shine with something unreadable. Their lips twist, and their eyes darken as they gleam at the Human with greedy eyes. 

Unaware of the subtle shift in atmosphere, Hashirama leans forth too.

“What do you have in mind?”

The kitsune smirks, vulpine features flickering across the human ones and merging them.

“Your life.”

His mind whirls as apprehension fills him. Suddenly, his swirly, happy mindset isn’t so natural anymore as he tries to think logically. 

“Pardon?”

Uwaki smiles a benign smile, fangs biting into his lower lips lined in black. “You humans number your life in years. We want a portion of that.”

“Why?” he asks, fighting between logic and illogic.

The human-foxes share a glance, lips twitching.

“We want to see what it is like as human, of course!”

Others chime in, encouraging and agreeing.

Hashirama… finds it hard to argue.

Odd. 

He feels as if this is something he should find complaint in.

Hmm.

“Our esteemed Kurama-Sama’s brothers are precious to us,” the vulpine continues, eyes flashing a golden glow. “So we are offering you a deal, really. Five years. One for each of us.”

Fuzzy, he feels.

“What do I get if I win?”

Vulpine smiles sharpen all around. Abruptly, five jewel-like objects are placed onto the table. Beautiful, they are. Stunning. No larger than a mandarin, their textures are different. One is pearl-like, smooth and pale, while the others are rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Dazzling in the light of the room.

“Fox Jewels. Our lives. A life for a life.”

He can’t find fault in that. It seems pretty evenly matched. But the question is—

“Why?”

“Hmm?”

Brown eyes look from the jewels then back up. 

“Why offer your lives in return? Why such high stakes? What could you possibly want with mine? It’s not that significant. I’m merely a Human.”

Looks are exchanged, missing some of the previous humor and significance. Instead, they seem surprisingly reluctant.

“Questions are insignificant,” Uwaki purrs the next moment, tails flicking behind him. The ever-present sweet scent heightens abruptly, and Hashirama…

He forgets momentarily. What were they discussing?

Chips are allotted and he eagerly takes them with a smile.

“Amazing. I won’t lose!”

Madara nuzzles him again, drawing his attention and he blinks. Why was his lover asleep at such a time—?

“Let us start!”

Nevermind.

The tiles are dished and the foxes’ faces shine with greedy interest. 

His does too, for it was addicting, this feeling of this all or nothing game. 

The foxes shove their jewels forward, so pretty, so dangerous, and he has nothing to offer but his kunai. A symbol of his life as a shinobi, tossing it in the middle and off they go.

It takes no more than five minutes for him to realize they’ve been going easy on him. That they’ve been letting him win because, in mere moments, he feels as if he’s cornered.

The barest hints of sweat dot his forehead, and he swallows thickly.

Madara shifts again, mumbling this time.

“…rama.”

His fingers pause on the tile he was about to cast, eyes flickering to his lover.

Adorable, he was. Nuzzling into him, dark hair falling over his shoulder in unruly spikes and eyes softly closed.

He stifles a smile. 

Vulnerable, is the word to describe such a Madara.

“Hashirama! Your turn.”

He blinks, realizing that they weren’t alone. Of course not. He’s in the middle of a heart-stopping game! But—

Madara’s asleep next to him.

Asleep.

Madara.

Something tickles the back of his mind.

His fingers fall away from the tile and lift up to caress an ivory cheek. Madara doesn’t flinch, and his brow furrows.

Due to the life of a shinobi, they both were light sleepers. Never falling unconscious in an area they deemed unsafe and always waking at the lightest brush. Many times has he caressed Madara as such and caused the man to awaken no matter how he wished he didn’t.

“My Love,” he murmurs softly, clasping the side of Madara’s face as his thumb swipes gingerly.

Nothing.

“Hashirama! Play!”

He starts to glance back, his hand falling away when he freezes. Looking down, he sees his robes in Madara’s grasp. His armor—where did it go?

Blinking again, he sees that Madara’s armor is gone too.

Just where—?

Uwaki leans forth and Hashirama refuses to look at him.

This is wrong. Something was wrong.

“Madara,” he states again, voice firmer and nothing. Not even a flinch.

Reality seeps in.

Fun. He was having fun. A lot of fun but now it’s disappearing. That fuzzy, warm feeling falls away into the sharp, cold sense of actuality.

What has he been doing?

He stands abruptly, Madara falling back in his seat, and the foxes frown.

“What—”

“Hey—”

“Don’t—”

“What have you done to us?”

Vulpine eyes stare, and he presses himself in front of a very vulnerable, unconscious Madara. 

“We didn’t—” Uwaki starts.

“Quiet,” he snaps.

The table in front of them starts to shake slightly, chips falling from their piles and tiles clinking together, causing two of the five foxes to lean away. 

Anger bleeds into him. Trickery such as this—how could he be fooled by it? How stupid. How ignorant. If Madara got hurt because of him, he’d never forgive himself.

“Listen—”

“No, you listen,” he states, voice hard as his gaze flickers around the room.

The table shakes harder.

Walls tremble.

Uwaki sweats.

“Hashirama-Sama!”

The use of formalities draws him up short and the anxious expression on the human-fox’s face calms him some. The table settles, the walls still and everything’s silent.

“Explain,” he demands.

The foxes share another glance, this one deprived of any humor or sneakiness and instead full of anxiety and apprehension.

“We—” one starts and stops, gazing at Uwaki anxiously.

“Put him to sleep,” the orange-haired man finishes, meeting his eye unflinchingly. “He was wary and tempting you away, and we didn’t want that.”

Irritation flickered within him.

“Sleep? Is that all this is?”

Brown eyes flick to Madara and back. “Yes. He’ll wake up tomorrow reenergized and full of vitality as if he had a full night’s rest.”

He glares, assessing the fox for any sort of trickery or treachery. Surprisingly, his gaze is open and honest. 

Hashirama’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Why?”

More uneasy glances and silence encompass. None of the foxes seem to be willing to speak, and his temper flares.

“Why?!”

Uwaki’s jaw clenches and unclenches periodically. 

“We were having fun,” the kitsune states petulantly, brow furrowing as he glances off. “You were having fun.”

“Says the fox that hazed my mind.”

The kitsune appear chagrin, grimacing and refusing to meet his gaze.

Uwaki stares at the table in front of them.

“The moment you walked in, you were enchanted. It’s something we do. We’re kitsune. We trick, okay? It’s fun and it’s entertainment. We didn’t control you or make you do things you didn’t want to. The enchantment of this establishment only lessens your inhibitions. You wanted to play with us, so you did. That’s it. Your brot—lover was grumpy despite everything. Tired and refusing to sleep even though he obviously desperately wanted it. We just… helped him. In our own way.”

Multiple heads nod, glancing at one another before looking back up at him, and he contemplates.

“My armor—Madara’s armor. Where is it?”

Uwaki points past him and he glances back to the table he vaguely remembers sitting at and on top is their armor, pristine and piled. 

Shoulders easing some of their tension, he turns back.

“You said you were hot, so we… inspired you to take it off.”

That earns a snicker from the other foxes that quiets instantly with his glare. He must admit, however, he is curious as to how they got not only him but Madara out of their armor, but—

Not now. There are many questions to be answered now that his head wasn’t so… fuzzy.

“The last deal,” he states and the other’s expressions fall. “Why that?”

Scowling, Uwaki refuses to speak as more eerie glances are shared.

“We were fair,” the orange-haired kitsune snarks.

“We offered a viable exchange,” states the brown-haired one.

And he must give them that. Although not privy as to exactly how they planned on taking five years of his life, offering their own entire ones in exchange was more than equal.

“Yes, but why?”  

“We just wanted to see what it’s like to be Human,” states another one, vulpine fangs glinting in the light. Black nails tap rhythmically against the table in a show of blatant anxiety.

Brow furrowing, Hashirama’s a bit… confused.

“Human? Why? Can you not just… go and see for yourself?”

Uwaki finally meets his gaze, glaring. “No. We can’t, thank you.”

“Your kind thinks us cursed,” says the redhead.

“Ill-fated,” replies another.

“A bad omen.”

“If they see us, they run.”

Thinking about it, he’s never given foxes any thought. Never really. They were animals, and they could sometimes be food, and their pelts were soft and warm, but… other than that? 

He supposes that there have been rumors of the kitsune. Of the yoka and of their misfortune. Never being one to adhere to superstition, he’s shoved them all away, but now he thinks that, perhaps, he should have given it a listening ear.

The expression of the human-foxes stare back at him angry and chagrin still. Remorseful yet bitter.

“Five years is all we asked of you,” Uwaki states, chin rising into the air stubbornly. “It’s barely a blink of your life; one for each of us. We offered you compensation should you somehow win.”

“You still tricked me,” he states, remembering that they were hustling him. 

“We can’t help that you suck,” whined one.

“We just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” muttered another.

“We meant no harm,” finished Uwaki. He flicks a tile with a black claw, knocking into his stack of chips and causing them to fall. “Not really.”

Pity flares to life within him, and remorse quickly follows. Thinking about it, they… really haven’t tried to harm them. They put Madara to sleep, but they said he’d wake up feeling better than ever. They tricked him into betting his life, but he was enjoying it. He can’t lie. The thrill—it's addicting.

“Do… Humans really fear you as such?”

Eyes flash, and the question earns him five pairs of glares.

“What do you think? You’re human,” snaps the orange-haired one.

“Superstitions evade me. I am a shinobi. The need for comfort that regular people crave is absent.”

“Kurama-Sama,” Uwaki interjects, hard brown eyes staring up at him. “Kurama-Sama. You… people think he is a demon. The Fox Demon. The Kyuubi no Kitsune. You fear him, and by default, you fear us. We’ve been isolated from the Human world for millennia. No one has signed a summoning contract in centuries, and no one has stepped foot within our realm—until you two. You’re the first Humans ever. We saw our opportunity and took it.”

It makes sense. Whispers of the Kyuubi in the shinobi world were harsh. The Nine-Tailed Fox, most powerful Bijū. It’s highly likely that rumors spread to the common people, causing a series of superstitions and curses.

“So… why five years? How did you plan taking it?”

More looks are shared, and this time, they seem hesitant for a different reason.

The redhead shakes her head.

The brown-haired nods.

Uwaki sighs.

“We planned on possessing you… sort of.”

His brows raise, and the kitsune leans forward.

“When we won, we would each get you for a year. We’d live inside you, possess you, and be Human with you. We’d see the world outside the mountain and we’d switch when our time was up.”

“Possess me? Like a demon?”

Uwaki hedges. “Sort of. Kurama-Sama… is a Bijū, as you certainly know. Many years ago, he lived inside someone.”

“We shouldn’t tell him this,” the redhead whispers harshly. “Kurama-Sama will be angry.”

Uwaki glances at her. “They’re his brothers. Bijū or not, Kurama-Sama claimed them in front of us. If he didn’t want us to say anything, he would’ve given word.”

That makes the redhead fall silent, her golden eyes flickering to them anxiously. She stops refuting.

Hashirama’s interest is piqued. Kurama? The Kyuubi no Kitsune? Living inside someone? How peculiar. 

“Who did he live inside?”

“His father. Your father, I suppose. The Sage of Six Paths.”

Now that is a name known to him. The founder of their time, the Father of Shinobi, so to speak. Without the Sage, there would be no ninjas. No ninjutsu, genjutsu, or anything. He ignores the ‘your father’ part as questions plague him.

“Really? The old man? How?”

Uwaki shrugs, picking at a crevice in the table. “We’re not certain. The things we know are merely rumors, older than any of us, but… he’s called a jinchūriki. Power of Human Sacrifice.”

“That’s a bit… morbid.”

Uwaki shrugs. “We planned to possess you in a way that Kurama-Sama and his father lived, a symbiosis of sorts. Short-lived and not eternal like it tends to be, but… it would be a way to see the world.”

Interesting, their proposition, but… Hashirama isn’t certain how he feels about sharing his body as such.

Still. His mind whirls with the thoughts, the possibilities that have been presented.

“Can all the Bijū do that?”

“Certainly. They all came from the Sage, after all. That’s why they were born.”

The Bijū… and humans? Living together? As one?  

Huh.

Something trickles into his mind—a thought that quickly blossoms. Manifests and grows. A possibility, something unheard and unfound, but if made reality?

It would be a certain way to change the tides of Humans and Bijū. A way to bring them together.  

“I’m sorry to say but I can’t offer my life, five years or no. Shinobi tend to live short ones as is, and I need mine to make peace across the lands before I go.”

Disappointment etches onto all five faces, but it’s quickly masked under an air of nonchalance.

“We figured. That’s why we made the bet.”

“But,” he adds before they can get too down—his heart hurts at the mere sight. “I can make a world where you can see it yourselves. No possessing and no shunning. Just… you and the Humans.”

They perk up, and he stifles a smile.

“Really?”

“You can do that?”

“But you’re only Human.”

“I’m a powerful Human,” he interjects. 

“We know,” says the brown-haired one. “That’s why we chose you. You could support all five of us and live. A normal Human couldn’t.”

He supposes he can give them that.

“I do plan to make peace with everyone. Before today, I hadn’t considered the thought of the Bijū or you, but things have changed. Life is never so steady. I can promise you that one day you can walk freely with the humans.”

Five pairs of eyes stare at him silently, and he flushes.

“Of course, not immediately. I may be powerful, but not that—”  

“Your promise is enough,” Uwaki cuts off. He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Kurama-Sama may be old and fickle, but… he would not have brought you here if he didn’t trust you. If he trusts you, so do we.”

Hashirama beams at that, a warm feeling washing over him. Resolve solidifies, and although he is uncertain as to how, he knows that he will.  

An idea he has, but if it will come true… Well, that depends on how tomorrow’s conversation with Kurama goes, it seems.

“We’ll be taking our leave, then,” he states, turning to collect Madara in his arms. “I suppose the trip to the inn to be just as long as it was before?”

Sheepish, the kitsunes look.

Uwaki sighs. 

“Take this. You’ll make it with ease.”

He picks up the jewel in front of him, ruby and red, tossing it.

Hashirama catches it with ease, barely jostling his sleeping lover before staring down at it with wide eyes.

“Is this not the fox jewel you previously offered? Your life?”

Humming, the kitsune nods. “Just give it back tomorrow and no harm.”

“You trust me with your life?”

A fox-like smile, sharp fangs, and all glint back at him. “See it as an offer of good faith.”

He clasps the ruby in his grip, squeezing it gently.

“Thank you,” he states sincerely. He hadn’t expected this outcome, and something warm swims within, different from the fuzziness he garners from the sweet smell of the room. Gratitude is his next emotion. “I had fun tonight.”

Five smiles, some more smug than others.

“We did, too, for what it’s worth,” says the orange-haired one.

“Let’s do it again,” mutters the brown-haired.

“We won’t hold back,” says the last.

“Take your winnings, at least,” says Uwaki with a spark of mischief in his eyes.

Hashirama’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything else as a stack of chips that he quickly converts to gold coins are placed in his hands. Taking it with a nod, he turns away. 

“I’ll be back for the armor later.”

“We’ll have it delivered.”

That… he doesn’t quite believe, but armor wasn’t as important as Madara, so he leaves without complaint.

*   *   *

His lover is quite angry in the morning, seething and grumbling. He barely refrains Madara from storming the streets as he comes to, coaxing him with the promise of a bath instead.

“Kitsune!” Madara sneers as he quickly undresses. “So treacherous! So vile! I’ll never trust one!”

“Now, now,” he mutters, eyes falling shut in a pained smile as he tries to placate the other. “No need for such vexation. They were merely playing around.”

Black eyes glare kunais and he steps back.

“Shut up and get out.”  

And Hashirama does, the door to the bath falling shut behind him with a soft click.

Sighing, he finds the armor that was delivered ten minutes prior, inspecting it for any temperament. 

It comes back negative.

Huh.

But it arrives alongside a giant sack of alcohol that has him snickering before he stashes it away.

Madara returns to the room in a much better mood, his hair wet and his shoulders lax. Truthfully, had they not needed to leave so soon, Hashirama would’ve taken him to bed, but alas! Such duties…

(Doesn’t mean he didn’t try.)

They make their way to Kurama’s temple in silence, the fox jewel in his pocket allowing an easy trip. It’s a heavyweight, the ruby, and he wonders where Uwaki is. He still needs to return it and would like to speak to the kitsune once more before he leaves. 

They climb steps and anxiety eats him. 

The idea he’s been turning over in his head since the night before swells and he bites it tongue before it can burst free unwillingly. How embarrassing that would be to make eye contact with the Kyuubi no Kitsune and word-vomit everything? Kurama surely would never agree then.

Fire flickers as they enter, the wind blowing as if alerting the master of their presence. Red slitted eyes narrow on them, and Hashirama notes a lack of kits climbing the fox, making him look far more intimidating than previously.

“You’re leaving,” the Kyuubi states.

“Yes,” he replies.

The fox hums and his eyes observe.

Madara sighs.

“But I wish to discuss something before we go,” he says, feeling a black gaze turning to him inquisitively. He hadn’t the time to run his idea past his lover and hoped Madara won’t be too mad at him for it.

Kurama’s head tilts, eyes narrowing. 

“And what is that?”

“Last night we discussed your and the other Bijūs’ allegiance toward certain countries. A way to make the Humans revere you instead of loathe you. After speaking with a few of your kitsune last night, I have come across an idea.”

“My kitsune?”

Flustered, he rubs the back of his neck as Madara glares into the distance. 

“Yes. They… We played quite a few games together.”

Kurama’s lips thin in displeasure as he states, “You gambled.”

“We gambled,” he contends, sighing in defeat.

“What possibly could you have come up with during a gambling session?”

“Jinchūriki.”

The kitsune tenses immediately, eyes falling into a glare as his chakra flares. 

“Of all the things—!”

“Please! Listen,” he calls, holding his hands up defensively. “Kurama-Sama.”

The Kyuubi relaxes, albeit reluctantly, as he sneers down at them.

“Speak. Quick.”

“Last night, I fell under the influence of your tricky servants. They bartered for five years of my life with their own in return. It, of course, failed but I discovered through it your past with your father, for they wanted to do the same to me.”

“I don’t see where—”

“What I offer you is this,” he states, cutting Kurama off and quickly transitioning into his proposal. The Kyuubi huffs but doesn’t refute, and he continues. “A tournament.”

Madara’s head turns toward him, and he offers his lover a reassuring smile before he turns back to Kurama’s inquisitive gaze.

“One where the Bijū of each country are given the opportunity to choose a new jinchūriki should they so wish.”

“Nonsense! What makes you think we would ever willingly let ourselves be used as such?!” Kurama snarls, standing with a yell. Enraged, his eyes gleam. “Father was different than the other Humans. He was good. No one could ever compare—”

“I’m not trying to compare to him,” he mollifies gently, speaking in a level tone. “This partnership would not be without your consent. This idea is new and can still be tweaked, but what I thought of is this: Each temple of the Bijū would hold a competition in which the winner would present themselves in front of you all as the best of the best. Should you deem them appropriate, you would come together as one. If not, your opinion would be adhered to until the next round of competitions, a certain amount of time later. Again and again, the cycle would repeat.”

“And should we never choose a host?”

“That’s fine,” he states. “It’s the power the idea brings that matters. The control. If Humans fight for the right to become one with you, to host you, your image will shift. No longer would you be distrusted or hated, but revered and worshipped. In a few years, thoughts will change, and in a hundred, you will get what your father always wanted.”

No longer angry, Kurama stares at him as if he is unrecognizable.

He flusters.

“Of course, it is merely an—”

“Sealing ourselves inside a human is one way. Why should we trust you?”

That has Hashirama floundering. There were some things he hadn’t thought of, this being one, but it only crossed his mind last night. Surely, in time—

“Seals can be manipulated.”

His head snaps over to find Madara staring up at the Kyuubi with an unreadable look.

Kurama glances at him with a raised brow.

“And what are you offering?”

“Humans made the seals, so we’re the best to manipulate them. There is a clan—the Uzumaki, renowned for their fuinjutsu. If we make a seal that gives you a fail-safe, will you agree?”

“What kind of fail-safe?”

“Should you come to view your jinchūriki in contempt, you would be able to leave.”

“That would kill the host,” Kurama states, certain.

“Better for you, then. Trust goes both ways. It would dissuade any wrongdoers trying to take your power for themselves, and likewise, it would strengthen your trust in your host. Partners, you truly would be,” Madara states, and Hashirama is overcome with such an overwhelming affection for his lover that he physically sways.

Of course Madara would quickly change his way of thinking in order to aide him. Always coming to his rescue, his lover was truly something else.

Unable to help himself, he reaches out and laces their fingers together, heart flipping when Madara allows it without complaint.

Kurama is silent in his contemplation.

“My brothers will not always align with the same village, just as I will not. We are free spirits. If we do this,” Kurama adds on as an afterthought, but Hashirama hears it for what it is. The fox was caving.

He smiles, wide and pleased.

“That is no worry. All the better to prove ourselves, then. If we strive for your attention and your loyalty, then peace talks would be easier, for your power wouldn’t be a bargaining chip.”

“It isn’t now!”

“To us, it’s not,” he concedes. “But to the other countries, you are. I’m sure that since we’ve had the thought, others have too.”

Red eyes glare and Kurama snarls. “I know! Your filthy desert already has claws on my littlest brother!”

This is news to Hashirama. Sharing a glance with Madara, he frowns. 

If the Land of Wind is already in possession of a Bijū, it would make the treaty discussions difficult. Not impossible, but complicated.

He sighs wearily.

“That is why I offer you my idea. At the summit, I will ask—”

“—Demand—” interjects Madara.

“—that Wind take a step back from your brother,” he says, sending Madara a look that says, No, we will not.  

The Uchiha rolls his eyes, but the stubborn set of his jaw makes Hashirama (briefly) mourn his lover’s obstinacy. 

Hopefully, they’ll come out of this without a war.

Hopefully.

Kurama sits up suddenly and stares down at them with unreadable eyes. 

“Although Shukaku is far from my favorite sibling, he is still one of us. Retrieve him from the desert shinobi, and I will speak to my siblings on your offer.”

Brightening, flowers erupt by his feet as he bounces on his heels. 

“Yes! Of course!”

Although he has no idea how he’ll do it, if ensuring Shukaku’s freedom initiates the revolution with the Bijū, he’ll take it.

Kuramma huramphs as he sits back.

“We’ll see.”

Madara grumbles something beneath his breath, but his expression is blank when Hashirama glances over.

“Whatever. Take your leave now,” the Kyuubi mutters, flicking a clawed hand.

Madara starts to pull him away, but he resists, looking back. 

“Wait. I have one more request.”

Irritation mars the vulpine’s features. “Just what—”

“Uwaki. Do you know where he is at? I have to return this.” He pulls the fox jewel from his pocket, and Kurama’s eyes narrow instantly.

“Why do you have that?!”

“He gave it to me so we could get to the inn last night.”

Kurama eyes him incredulously. “Gave it to you? Willingly?” 

Sheepish, he smiles. “Yeah. Remember how I said we bet on lives?”

Huffing, the fox relaxes back and rolls his eyes. “Of course. I’ll send him your way. You can meet him at the edge of the temple.”

He bows his thanks and tugs on Madara’s hand. “Then we shall be off.”

The old fox huffs and flicks a few fingers in goodbye.

The trek down is silent. He can feel Madara’s unspoken words and he waits patiently for his lover’s input.

“That was a good idea.”

Brightening instantly, he beams. “You think?”

Where he expects Madara to roll his eyes and huff like his brother, the Uchiha nods instead, face serious. 

“I knew you would be a great leader. Thanks for proving me right.”

Stunned, he misses the last step. 

Black eyes widen but pale arms aren’t the ones to catch him. Tans ones wrap around his waist instead.

“Careful, Hashirama. Can’t have you dying before your promise is fulfilled,” says Uwaki’s voice laced with amusement.

Madara glares as Hashirama straightens. 

The human-fox smiles back, wincing slightly with the Uchiha’s glower of distrust and anger.

“Sorry about last night.”

“Shut it before I skin you alive and take your pelt for my bed.”

Both Hashirama and Uwaki wince again. 

“Mada—”

“No, it’s okay. I deserve it. We knew he was untrusting when we put him to sleep.”

Hashirama merely sighs and pulls the ruby jewel from his pocket. “Thank you again.”

Uwaki smiles, teeth sharp and fox-like as he takes the proffered gem, caressing it with a clawed finger. “No, thank you. I’m holding you to your word. All of us are.” 

He nods and the orange-haired fox pulls something from his sleeve, eyes lighting with mischief. 

Madara tenses but Hashirama raises an appeasing hand as he asks, “What’s this?”

“A token of good faith. It’s a mahjong set.”

He takes the golden box tentatively, opening it to find pristine pearl tiles with golden markings. Foxes prance along the back, orange and red outlined in gold. Beautiful, the pieces are. Breathtaking. 

He flounders.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Uwaki states, closing the lid and pushing it further into his hands. “A gift from all of us.”

“But—”

“You can’t trust a kitsune,” Madara snarls, yet makes no moves to take the present. “We don’t want it.”

The vulpine’s smile turns strained. “I can’t make you trust me, but it is just a mahjong set. It’ll bring you good luck.”

Suspicions swarm him at the look in the kitsune’s eyes, but he finds himself not asking.

Madara’s disapproval waffs off him in waves, and Hashirama ignores it as he hides the set in his sleeves.

“Thank you.”

Uwaki waves him away, rolling the ruby through his fingers now. “Don’t mention it.”

“We must be on our way then.” 

The kitsune nods, moving aside to let them pass.

“It was nice to meet Kurama-Sama’s brothers. I hope we made an impression.”

“You sure did,” Madara sneers as he breezes by.

Hashirama gives the human-fox a pained smile as he follows, nodding. “I hope to see you again.”

Uwaki’s waning smile brightens again. “As do I, Hashirama-Sama. If you so wish, fox summons are always available. We’ve been gone from the Human realm too long. Your lover may as well, though I don’t foresee that ever happening.”

He blinks, startled at the offer but by the time he gathers his bearings, the kitsune is gone in a gust of wind and swirling leaves.

Huh.

He turns back just in time to see Madara trip on a large branch in the middle of the pathway and he’s over in a blink. 

“My Love—”

“I’m fine!” Madara snarls, pulling his arm roughly from Hashirama’s grip as he stands. “I merely didn’t see it.”

The words leave a sour taste in his mouth as he watches his lover’s back walk away from him. Inklings tease him, puzzle pieces aching to fall together, yet for some reason, they just don’t.

Sighing, he catches up to the other and laces their fingers.

Madara relaxes minutly.

“Let us go, my Love.”

“Hn,” is the only reply he receives.

*   *   *

Silence ensases the room as Hashirama buzzes, biting back a smile as his eyes flick from Kage to Kage. 

They were all here. All five. Each one adorning the same robes as him but a different color, they sneak glances at Madara. Some gazes are open with curiosity, most with distrust, but that’s okay because they’re here.  

Oh gods, he's going to throw up.

“You called us here, Hokage-Sama. Let us discuss,” the Kazekage, Reto, states, his elbows resting on the table as his hands are folded.

Hashirama nods hastily, leaning forward. “Of course! The fact that we are able to convene this Gokage Summit with the first Kage of the Five Great Nations is truly amazing. I appreciate it so much!” he yells as he places his hands on the table, head hitting it as he bows low.

Madara’s hand is on his shoulder immediately, yanking him straight.

“Do not bow your head to people of equal standing,” the Uchiha hisses, eyes flicking across the table.

Hashirama pales at his lover’s tone and nods hastily. 

“S–Sorry, my Lo—”

“Hashirama!” is the whispered hiss.

“I’m just so happy!” he can’t help but state.

Madara’s hand on his shoulder remains firm and solid, refusing to let him bow again.

“You shouldn’t bow your head so easily,” is the Raikage’s voice. Arms crossed across his chest, A stares at him with a raised brow.

“I might have come here to endorse the treaty the Hokage has put forth, but… I am doing nothing for free,” says the Tsuchikage. Hands folded in his black robes, Ishikawa stares at him with eyes alight with greed.

“If you behave too humbly, you’ll make us suspicious,” speaks the Mizukage. The scar down his dead eye is long as Byakuren gazes at him sharply.

“Enough, enough,” Reto states, turning to him. “Discussing the distribution of the Bijū you will collect is the condition to sign this treaty. This is simply a transaction, not something to get so emotional over.”

His body pulls taut, Madara’s hand on his shoulder flexing once before it disappears, and he takes a breath.

“About that. Something’s changed.”

Immediately, the Kage present tense and Hashirama sweats. Before they can cry in outrage, he carries on.

“Me calling upon you for peace has not but at the price of the Bijū has. There has been a development in which I must take the Bijū off the table. They are not for sale to any nation, even my own.”

“Quite arrogant of you to assume you can control the power of the Bijū,” Reto states, eyes narrowing into a glare.

“This is preposterous!” Ishikawa cries, hands slamming onto the table and jarring it. The advisors tense, and Hashirama’s mind races. “You cannot call us here and expect us to listen without the promised price!”

“I must agree,” replies Byakuren, his single eye falling onto Hashirama with suspicion. “It’s a little misgiving.”

The table clacks as he bows again, Madara growling behind him.

“I know and I’m sorry but the fact cannot be changed.” 

A hand fisting in his robes pulls him back and he allows it, looking at the other kage pleadingly.

“There must be something else you want. Bijū cannot be it.”

“Well, yes,” Reto starts, only to be cut off.

“The power imbalance is the root of this summit,” A chimes in, dark brown eyes observing him cooly.

Hashirama nods. “There is nothing I can do about the power remaining in Konoha. I apologize. Fire has surely gained traction, but even so, we don’t wish for war.”

“What changed?” Byakuren suddenly cuts in, causing the attention to turn to him.

“Pardon?”

“You said the Bijū were no longer available. What happened?”

Unease creeps down his spine and he resists the urge to glance back at Madara. They didn’t quite have time to come up with an excuse on the way over, and everyone knows Hashirama cannot lie to save his life. Taking a breath, he decides on the truth.

“I am currently trying to make the Bijū more favorable for everyone. On the way here, we spoke to—”

“Hashirama!”

“To,” he stresses, sending a smile back toward Madara that says trust me.  

The Uchiha glares, but his jaw remains shut, so he turns back. 

“To,” he repeats. “The Kyuubi.”

Everyone tenses, the advisors head for their weapons while the Kage stare at him in disbelief and suspicion. 

“Put it away or you will be rudely awakened to the fact that you are not as powerful as you would like to think,” Madara demands and he turns to find the Tsuchikage’s advisor has his weapon fully drawn.

He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Madara’s Sharingan is flaring to life. The people tensing in front of him are enough, but he rotates anyway, sighing.

“My Love.”

Red intricate eyes observe each person slowly before landing on him and falling to black. Madara huffs, looking away, and Hashirama turns back.

“I apologize, but Madara is right. Please don’t try to fight us. It won’t work well for you in the end.”

It’s a threat, most certainly, but an intentional one, for it was the truth. However, once the words leave his mouth, he winces and the others glare. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Finish what you were saying, Hokage-Sama or you will find yourself on the ends of not one but four Kage’s wraths.”

He barely refrains from rubbing his temple as he nods.

“Yes. Of course,” he replies without a hint of fear. Why would he be scared with the Uchiha Madara at his back? The other Kage must also read this, as they frown, and Hashirama frets. This isn’t how he wanted it to go. “As I was saying. I’ve spoken to the Kyuubi, and I’ve come to realize the Bijū aren’t the demons we believe them to be. They are sentient. They feel, they speak, and I cannot in good conscious bind something not inherently evil.”

“You do not know—” Reta starts and Hashirama presses forth.

“I do know. I saw it myself and I’ve offered my protection to them. All of them,” he states with a pointed glance toward the Kazekage.

Reta frowns and glares at the silent implication. “I’d like to see you try.”

“We’ll get to that in a moment,” he replies, offering a close-eyed smile to the man before turning back. “But for now, I will tell you that I am working on something for all nations. I can’t say what, just know that if it goes through, then the power of the Bijū will be spread throughout. Willingly. So their power is off the table for now. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“This is ridiculous!” the Tsuchikage howls.

“Unfair,” Reto replies.

The other two remain silent, eyes focused on him.

“And I take responsibility for that, but we must make peace with what is to offer instead.”

“And what’s that?” the Kazekage asks.

“Let us discuss. What would you like?”

Auburn eyes widen slightly as Reto clearly didn’t expect this turning point before he leans forward and folds his hands together once more.

“Our land is barren of any fertile soil. Portions of Fire is what I wish for in order to farm crops for my people.”

Hashirama nods, lifting a hand when the other Kage speak in outraged cries. They quiet and he turns his head. 

“You chose well. Fire is quite fertile, just as Earth is plentiful with ore and Water with fish and Lightning with their wildlife. Everyone has a little bit of everything that we all need, do we not?”

“What are you saying?” Byakuren questions.

“I am saying that peace is still possible even without the Bijū. We all have something the others need.”

“Are you offering trade in place of the Bijū?” A asks, and Hashirama smiles.

“Precisely. If we establish trade treaties, offering equality, I believe you four will feel less inclined with Fire’s influx of power.”

“What makes you think trading goods will dissuade us from your ever-present strength inundation?” Ishikawa snaps.

“Well. I can’t prevent tensions from that. Fire is powerful, Konoha even more so. The Senju and the Uchiha reside there, so it always will be. No matter the Bijū allotted nor the shinobi numbers of your villages, it is irrevocable that Madara and I far outweigh anything we could possibly offer.”

“How utterly arrogant!” yells the Tsuchikage, standing as his face beats red.

“Truthfully,” Hashirama continues as if there was never an interruption. “You will simply have to go on the mere promise of mine that we want peace. I know the thoughts running through your head. What if that changes? What if our descendants don’t feel the same? How can we trust you? Valid, your worry is. As a young boy once told me, there is no way to truly know the hearts of other shinobi unless we can see each other’s guts. Until we could pour drinks like brothers, there would be no room for peace. When I asked him if he truly felt that way, he told me he did, but he hoped that we could find a way in the end.” 

A smile lights his face as he looks at the apprehensive Kage and he doesn’t need to turn to know Madara is staring at him with shock.

“Who would have guessed we did?”

In unison, all eyes in the room glance to the person behind him and back, making him smile wider. His hair falls over his shoulder as he tilts his head, letting his emotions fall over his face willingly this time.

“That is why,” he states, pulling a bag out of the table. Ignoring the way the room tenses, he pulls the contents free. “I hope to offer you all something else alongside our leadership duties. Today I wish to establish trade, peace, and also” he looks up, placing the bottle of sake in front of him, “Friendship.”

There are numerous reactions. Disbelief, shock, denial, rage, and surprise. He can feel Madara’s glare at the back of his neck but he doesn’t acknowledge it as he awaits the other’s response.

“What makes you think—” starts the Tsuchikage, who still has yet to sit back down.

“The Hokage is an idiot,” the Kazekage mutters, running his hand down his face.

“Interesting,” the Raikage states.

“Hmm,” is the Mizukage’s reply.

Silence descends as it seems the Kage are lost in thought, deciding their next course of action, when something else inconceivable happens. 

The scraping of a chair draws everyone’s attention, including Hashirama’s, and he turns in astonishment as Madara sits himself at the Kage table without another thought.

Black eyes shift across the faces and a dark brow raises.

“What? Do you seriously think I wouldn’t partake? It was my idea, be it twelve years ago or two.”

Hashirama beams, utterly shocked but enthused.

Madara ignores him as he grabs the bottle and glasses, setting one in front of them both.

Oh, how he longs to lean into the other. To kiss him and show his affection but he bites it back harshly. Not only would Madra disagree, but he’d also get a little violent, so he takes his sake cup with shaking hands silently instead.

“Hashirama is right,” the Uchiha states, setting the bottle back down and glancing around. “We are powerful and we are strong. It will most likely never deplete, continuing to grow instead. All we can offer you is the promise to never invade first, to never attack, and only to defend should one of your nations decide not to adhere to this treaty. You have no reason to trust us, just as we have no reason to trust you, yet here we all are. Together, looking for something. Be it power or resources, everyone has come here seeking to gain. What we offer you might not seem like a lot, but… take it from someone who’s gone against this Senju time and time again; you’re going to lose each and every time. Be it a battle of wills or a battle of the bodies, Hashirama… is a cockroach. Always crawling out with the win every. Single. Time. Especially when you think it’s finally yours.”

He squawks at Madra’s words, turning to his lover. “I am not a cockr—”

“So. We offer you this,” Madara continues, face revealing nothing but Hashirama can see the amused smirk in his eyes. “As my Hokage stated, peace, land, and,” the Uchiha raises a glass, Hashirama’s quickly following. “Companionship.”

Their cups clink together before they toss them back, his face squeezing with the burn, and Madara’s brow furrowing. They place them back down together in mirrored clinks before looking to the others.

“You are…” Byakuren starts.

“Rather fascinating,” A finishes.

“What are you talking about? They’re ridiculous!” Ishikawa crows.

Reto is fairly silent.

“Yes, but… not anyone can go up to four separate leaders as ask for friendship,” A murmurs, eyeing him keenly.

“How amusing,” the Mizukage finally snickers.

“I want land,” the Kazekage finally states, turning away from the other Kage and to him.

“I want Shukaku,” he replies without missing a beat.

A dark, furrowed brow. “Shukaku?”

“The bijū in your possession. Free him and I shall allot Wind a plot of land.”

Reto’s face falls into outrage before it’s masked by indifference. “Do you know what you are asking for?”

He tilts his head. “I promised Kurama-Sama I would have his brother freed from you. It will happen. How it goes about is up to you, however.”

How earthly blank the desert shinboi’s face is as he ponders, eyes flicking between him and Madara. 

“I can’t just give it up.”

“I can’t let you keep him trapped.”

The threat is veiled within warm words but the Kazekage understands his true meaning.

Release the bijū or face my wrath.  

It’s a bluff. There’s no way he could go about to force his way onto these leaders. The whole point of this summit is to prove the opposite. Still, he knows Madara is the one sitting beside him. The one glaring with eyes that portray, we will take the bijū by force whether you like it or not. Choose wisely.  

“Listen,” he states, leaning forth. “Release him. Just leave him be and I assure you that when my plans are through, you will be the first with rights to him.”

Reto’s eyes flash. “I thought you weren’t entraping them?”

“I’m not,” he concedes, “but I also said I have things planned. If they fall into line, you will be the first, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be the only ones.”

His eyes flick across the table, meeting every leader’s gaze.

“All of you, actually. It will be equal game for your shinobi.”

The Kages’ eyes shine with curiosity and greed but he stifles any more words lest he bite off more than he can chew. He desperately wishes for this to come true, but first…

He turns back to Reto who eyes him blankly.

“You have the bijū I want and I have the land you require. What will it be?”

They share a long look, neither backing down until, eventually, the Kazekage sighs almost annoyed before his hand reaches out and snatches one of the empty glasses.

Hashirama lights up.  

Madara huffs a laugh as he fills the Kazekage’s glass before turning to the other’s with a raised brow.

The Tsuchikage is still outraged, muttering his disbelief and profanities but the other two are silent.

Eventually, A is the one to speak first.

“Konoha is sure to be a strong alliance, but… what makes you think we won’t fight one another?”

He inclines his head, watching as Madara refills his glass before looking up at the Raikage.

“Excellent question. Like I wished before, trade. We all have what the others need. Take the Kazekage and I, for example. He has the Bijū I wanted, and likewise, I have the land he wanted. Thus, he decided to pick up the glass of agreement.”

Reto’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t refute as he throws the sake back, blinking rapidly a moment later.

“Fuck, that’s strong.”

Hashirama laughs, loud and raucous. “Of course! It is but the best, from the world of the kitsune, after all!”

Disbelief stares back at him, and Reto asks, “I wasn’t poisoned, was I?”

“Nonsense. Madara and I drank the same. The only difference is that this sake gets you inebriated much faster than regular sake.”

After a moment’s contemplation, Reto nods, sighing. He holds his glass out and Madara smirks.

“That is what these drinks are for,” he eventually tells A, looking up earnestly. “I hope that not only would you all form a bond with me, but the others as well.”

Looks are shared amongst the Kage, Ishikawa, the helm of distrust, but Hashirama has hope.

A is the first to cave, staring at him with unreadable dark eyes. 

“What if Lightning wants a plot of land as well?”

“I’d ask what for, considering your land isn’t so barren.”

“Why not?”

“Then I would have to offer trade routes instead. You have interesting animals, after all. I’m sure the pelts, bone and meat to be useful to Fire.”

The Raikage and his advisor observe him with dark eyes, arms crossed over their chests. Puzzling, their eyes are, trying to dissect him as if he were something interesting. 

“Why do you want this so badly?”

A smile splits his face at A’s question.

“Peace is, of course, better for everyone! Madara and I made peace because we were tired of children dying. Our brothers fell way before they reached double digits, leaving only one left for each of us to cherish. We wished not to have that repeat, so we made Konoha, but our acclimation has made you all wary in the process, with you thinking us to hone our power to use it to conquer rather than to liberate. I am here today to plead that not true and I aspire that you, too, can see my understanding. Have you not had children die by your hand or by an enemy’s?”

Something in A’s eyes flash, hardening a moment later as his jaw clenches.

Hashirama doesn’t need to be adept at reading emotions to know his words hit something deep within the heart of the other. 

“From what I’ve heard,” Ishikawa snaps, turning the attention to him, “is that the Uchiha were your biggest contenders, causing the most of the Senju’s bloodshed. If not for world domination, why side with the enemy?!”

He glances at Madara before he can help it, silently asking his lover the path they should take.

Black eyes stare back, hard and unforgiving yet reluctant acceptance swells within the dark gaze.

The Uchiha sighs, looking resigned. 

Hashirama fidgets, hands lacing and unlacing as excitement swells.

“We are to be wed!” he rushes, Reto choking on the sake he was sipping. 

The Kazekage’s coughs are the only noise within the room for the next few moments, the Tsuchikage’s face reddening with each second in either ire or embarrassment. A looks nonplussed, and the Mizukage suspicious (but what’s new?).

“We met as children, before we knew which clan we hailed from, and we became friends,” Hashirama backtracks, figuring it would do better to start with the beginning to fully express himself. “During this time, we decided that we wished for peace and planned accordingly. It was later that we were forced apart because our birthrights became known, but we eventually found each other again and the rest is history.”

“That’s—that’s—preposterous!” Ishikawa crows. 

“It is, unfortunately, the truth,” Hashirama contends. 

Reto gives him an incredulous look. “And you just—came out and said it? What if we use it against you? It’s leverage now.”

His face changes instantly, smiling softly as he turns to look at his fellow leader.

“And why would I fear that when he is the Uchiha Madara and I the Senju Hashirama? We are to be wed. You all would have found out one way or another, it was merely the timing.”

His smile must not be as nice as he believes it to be as Reto pales immediately, nodding once. 

“Point,” the Kazekage mutters, taking the bottle of sake himself and pouring himself another glass. “Point taken.”

“I merely told you all so you can understand that we didn’t do it for conquering. Honestly, you’re all too paranoid for your own good. I’ve been completely up front from the very beginning. It’ll hurt my feelings if you continue to doubt me as so,” he states with sincerity.

Madara sighs, rubbing his temple with closed eyes but continuing to remain silent.

A leans forward after a moment, plucking a glass with two thick fingers.

Hashirama perks up.

“You—”

“I will need a drink if we continue to gossip like school children,” the Raikage mutters, holding his cup out for Reto to fill. The Kazekage complies, albeit somewhat reluctantly, as if he hadn’t wanted to part from the liquor, filling his own again in the process.

“You fools cannot seriously—!” the Tuchikage fumes.

“I have heard what the Hokage has put forth and I am in acceptance,” A replies before tasting his alcohol, eyes flying to his a moment later. “You have good taste as well.”

“Thank you!”

A loud bang rouses everyone, eyes falling to Ishikawa, who glares venomously. Perhaps their topic of conversation has gone too far?

“This summit has gotten out of hand. Not only have you taken the Bijū off the table, but you are distracting us with your needless lies.”

His irritation spikes at the implication that his marriage is a lie but he tempers it as the Tsuchikage continues. 

“If you cannot produce the offered price, give us something else in return. And do not speak of trade!”

Taking a deep breath, Hashirama nods. “What would you like?”

Ishikawa appears to flounder for a moment, much like how Reto did previously, before his eyes alight with greed anew. 

“The Sharingan!”

Madara tenses immediately, with Hashirama quickly following.

“Send a few Uchi—”

Silence descends as killing intent fills the area suffocatingly. He places a hand on Madara’s thigh lest the man attempt to jump across the table, nails digging in as he looks at the Tsuchikage with a frown.

“Bloodlines are not mine to give, nor are they giveable. The Uchiha are a clan, one of many, that Konoha houses. Asking for people is not acceptable.”

Ishikawa’s ire seems to have finally fallen away as his eyes are glued to Madara. Anxious, the old man is, as he appears to realize his overstep.

“I’m not asking for slaves—”

“Regardless, my clan is not going to be split,” Madara states, voice deathly calm, but the underlying threat is quite prevalent. “Our dōjutsu is something gifted by our ancestors. It’s not for sale, be it peace on the table or not. If I must, I will wipe your lineage clean before I ever would consider sending off one of my clansmen.”

“Not even marriage—”

“Like myself, my clan members are free to choose their life partners. I will not force anyone’s hand into a union they do not want. Do I make myself clear?”

Sweat dots the old man’s brow as Madara leans forth, elbows pressing to the table. A casual look certainly, but—

The rigid set of his shoulders and the look of unamused challenge offset any nonchalance the posture gives.

The Tsuchikage’s shoulders jump, just barely, but enough to show that Madara is intimidating him harshly.

“Yes,” is the timid reply.

Leaning back, Madara nods once. 

“Good. I would not like to have to face the youngest Senju knowing I started a war. I’d never live it down,” is the muttered response, and despite the tension, Hashirama finds himself snickering.

“I’m sure Tobi would understand.”

The glare is turned to him now, not as threatening and more irritated. “Your brother is—”

“Yes, yes, I know. The bane of your existence, the horror of the world, and soon he will be your family.”

Paling, Madara blinks. Once, twice. It appears as if the man only just realized—

“No. No. He and Izuna are not—”  

Confused, it’s Hashirama’s turn to ask, “What?”

Madara appears to be quite ill. “They’re not—they’d never—”  

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” is the snapped response. 

“Our marriage,” he states the obvious.

Instantly, Madara’s shoulders relax. Like a weight suddenly lifted, the Uchiha slumps and relief mars his features. 

“Oh. Yes. That’s right. Our marriage.”

“What did you—”

“Unimportant,” Madara snaps, hands folding into his sleeves anxiously. “Let us move on.”

It appears their little squabble has eased tensions as the Tsuchikage looks irritated once more, but no longer irate. The others stare at them with caution and—

Is that amusement in A’s gaze?

Reto sighs.

“I need more alcohol to deal with you all.”

Lighting up, Hashirama immediately pulls out another bottle—one of five more since the kitsune hooked him up before he left, and Reto sighs, relieved.

“Yes, splendid,” the Kazekage mutters.

A silently holds out his own glass and Reto doesn’t seem to be so reluctant to fill it any longer as he pours it full.

Hashirama turns his gaze toward the silent Mizukage, who hasn’t spoken in quite some time, observing them with a cautious eye.

“What about you, Mizukage-Sama? Would you care to join us for a drink?”

The man, far older than any he’s seen before, remains silent, his lazy eye staring rather intently. 

“And what does Water have to gain from this? As… quick-tempered and erratic as the Tsuchikage is, I must agree with his counsel. You take our promised price away and try to bargain for something else. It does not look greatly upon you, Hokage-Sama.”

Hashirama bows his head slightly in acknowledgment, understanding that he is asking a lot from men he knew nothing of a mere few hours ago. It would take time for things to truly ease, but he holds hope that it will happen eventually. 

“I understand that, and I must apologize again. It was unforeseen before we came here how it would go, but now I must take responsibility for my actions and mistake. I’m sure there is something Water could benefit from that does not pertain to the Bijū?”

Byakuren is silent for a moment before, “We are an isolated country with poor terrain and goods.” Surprisingly to everyone, the man turns toward Ishikawa. “I would like to discuss mineral imports.”

The Tsuchikage’s lingering ire falls away as he stares at the Mizukage in contemplation. 

“And what would you like to discuss?”

“Your country is the leading producer of the ore that makes our weapons. Water is interested in what you have to offer.”

“I suppose it would make sense that a country renowned for its kenjutsu would take an interest in minerals. What is it that you wish?”

Hashirama watches in silent bafflement as his plans fall together on their own. Of course he meddled a bit, but this course of action was all on the Mizukage!

Hahaha, what an unforeseen turn of events!

Giddy, he turns to Madara, who sighs and rolls his eyes at the look on his face.

“It was your idea,” the Uchiha mutters.

“I know!” he whispers back, fiddling with his hands. “I hadn’t expected it so quickly!”

The two kage go back and forth, attempting to goad the other into giving up more than they should, yet they both fail. They were old, Hashirama muses. It makes sense for them to be experienced and wise.

Eventually, it is settled that Kiri would get an influx of ore in exchange for kenjutsu instructors to come to Iwa and teach. 

“What about the rest of us?” Reto mutters, teeth clicking against the rim of his cup as he stares with a raised brow. His face is flush, showing his level of sobriety as he continues to teeth the porcelain like an infant.

“What do you have to offer in exchange?” is the Mizukage’s reply as his old, wrinkled hand reaches out and plucks a glass.

Hashirama all but bounces in his seat, Madara’s hand halting his movements when it becomes too much.

A notes the move with a look of surprise, while the Tsuchikage appears contemplative now.

“Touché,” Reto replies.

Madara wastes no time filling Byakuren’s glass, the old man throwing it back with experience.

“I must agree with the Raikage… you have good taste, Hokage-Sama.”

Hashirama melts.  

“Well—”

“What about you?” Madara’s voice interrupts the rant he was about to fall into, black eyes observing the Tsuchikage with disinterest.

Flustered, Ishikawa glares. “What about me?”

“Do you wish to take up a glass as well?” Hashirama interjects before Madara can antagonize he man into falling into line. He wants genuineness, not forced submission. He wants the Tsuchikage to want it.

“Why should I?” the ornery old man snaps, arms crossing defensively. “What’s in it for me?”

That causes him to flounder slightly. Momentarily for anything, when, to his utter surprise, Madara’s voice replies.

“You admire strength, do you not?”

Dark eyes narrow but not without a hint of trepidation as Ishikawa stares at the Uchiha.

“What do you—”

“I mean, that is why you wished for the Bijū, lusted for my clan. Power speaks to you, and that is why you are wary of us.”

Quiet, the Tsuchikage is, and Madara nods.

“That is why we’ve added a clause to this treaty—an alliance. There are more countries than ours. Despite however small in number, banned together could prove to be something unheard of. If we all sign this treaty, we promise not only to never attack one another but also to aid. If Earth is invaded, it is on us to send reinforcements, to aid.”

Ishikawa leans in, interest piqued, while Hashirama stares.

That, most certainly, was not in the agreement. Not yet. Truthfully, it hadn’t crossed his mind until Madara spoke.

Allies, that’s what they would be.

It makes sense to aid even if they are the strongest five nations on this continent. There is always room for bigger and badder fish. Nothing is impossible.

A, Byakuren, and Reto are also listening intently, eyeing the Uchiha.

“That,” the Tsuchikage starts. “Doesn’t sound too bad. But what if the one invading is one of us?”

“Then that means they have violated the clause, and therefore their participation in this treaty is null and void. If one of us invades another, they will be rounded on by the rest of our allied nations and will be taken down.”

Ishikawa hums, stroking his white beard silently as he ponders.

“And if we wish to invade someone instead?”

Black eyes glance at him and he takes the hint to take over.

“The whole point of this is for peace. We will not help you take over other nations, only to defend. That’s what is written. If you start something you cannot finish, that is on you. I wish no longer to see children slain, and war prevents that.”

Silence as the other Kage ponder this new development, fingers tapping and eyes distant. 

Eventually, the Tsuchikage is the one to break the silence, sighing. Without another word, he leans forth and plucks the last remaining glass from the center of the table.

Hashirama’s heart soars.  

Madara fills it dutifully and everyone watches as the Tsuchikage tosses it back. 

The old man chokes not a second later, gasping, “Fuck.”  

Reto laughs, loud and boisterous and Hashirama feels himself quickly falling into the same mindset.

“It is done!” he exclaims excitedly, half filled with disbelief. “Thank you for this Gokage Summit!”

*   *   *

He talks them into mahjong. 

The forgotten game set almost went unseen until they were making their way to the third bottle of sake and he saw it.

“You hustler!” Ishikawa crows for the umpteenth time that round. He stands, leaning toward the side far enough that his advisor steps in to prevent him from falling and it causes a laugh to tumble out of Hashirama’s throat.

The Tsuchikage’s red face flushes deeper as he points a shaky finger.

“Don’t you laugh!”

That makes him laugh harder.

Reto relaxes back next to him, leaning on the two back legs of his chair as his dark brow is furrowed in concentration—as concentrated he can be while drunk off his ass—while staring at the pieces in front of them.

A and Byakuren are the most sober-looking, but the way A zones out now and then and Byakuren’s abrupt snickers give way to their true intoxication. 

They’ve made plenty of deals thus far, sparking a whole new sea of trade that’s unheard of for their time. A revolution it truly is, for the conventions they’ve agreed upon.

Now they are most certainly past the point to be making deals, so, instead, they are using the gold coins Hashirama won the previous day from the kitsune.

“Do that one,” Madara mutters, leaning into his side almost fully. He vetoed a set of tiles, saying that he was not a Kage, therefore it wouldn’t make sense for his participation, but he has been helping Hashirama choose his plays now and then, and good choices they’ve been when he chimes in.

Another thing, Hashirama is winning.  

Already, he’s amassed the majority of the gold coins he handed out, much to the Tsuchikage’s discontent and he was having fun.  

Listening to his lover, he tosses the tile only for Reto to groan.

“Are you fucking genius? How long have you been playing?” the Kazekage grumbles as he tosses a tile, swiping another.

“Since yesterday,” he replies, earning him multiple stares. “What?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious.

Madara snickers, finding his glass and emptying it on his tongue.

“You started yesterday?” Reto repeats.

“Yes.”

“What?” are the four Kage in unison.

He flusters. “Why? Am I that bad?”

“No!” Reto interjects, leaning toward him. “You’re good!”  

Despite himself, he preens even if there is a vague feeling in the back of his mind saying that no, he’s not good just—

Lucky.

“Truly admirable,” A comments, taking his turn. 

“Some moves are clearly novice,” Ishikawa sneers.

“Hn,” is all the Mizukage replies.

Smiling, he feels smug for some reason.

Maybe the kitsune were right. Gambling is so much fun.

By the time he allocates all of his previous coin, their advisors step in.

“Kazekage-Sama—”

“Mizukage-Sama—”

“Raikage-Sama—”

“Tsuchikage-Sama—”

“—it’s time to depart,” they finish in unison.

Hashirama pouts while Madara stands immediately, swaying a bit before he steadies himself, too.

“Yes, we should leave as well,” the Uchiha mutters, suddenly looking more sober than he was five minutes ago. 

How did—?

Nevermind. Of course Madara wouldn’t allow himself to be so vulnerable as a drunk if he didn’t have a way to straighten out immediately should the time call for it.

Hashirama’s tempted to use his own jutsu to heal himself, but brushes it off a moment later as the world swirls.

Nah.

This feeling was amazing.  

He giggles.

“C’mon, Hokage- Sama,” Madara mutters as his hand wraps around Hashirama’s upper arm and pulls. 

Staggering, he allows himself to be dragged outside much like the other Kage.

Reto and A are the best, walking on their own and almost in a straight line. They weave every now again, causing Hashirama to stifle a laugh.

The old men aren’t so lucky.

Ishikawa snickers as he runs into Byakuren, who eyes the other with an irritated look.

Their advisors appear stressed, hovering over their Kage with mother-henning features.

“Mizukage-Sama!”

“Tsuchikage-Sama!”

Hashirama cackles.

“Hush it,” Madara grumbles as they follow the others out. “You’d be just like them if it weren’t for me.”

“Noooo,” he denies, tripping not even a moment later.

Madara catches him, and he snickers harder, shoulders shaking with his laughter.

Once outside, the Kage’s turn to one another, bidding their goodbyes.

“It was certainly interesting,” A mutters.

“Yes, do never change,” is the Mizukage’s reply.

“You’re certainly… special,” Reto states, leaning into his advisor’s hold.

“Stubborn! That’s what you are,” Ishikawa cries, but then he, too, delves into laughs. “‘S a good thing. Promise.”

Surprised, Hashirama smiles widely and bows once. The world swooshes and he almost staggers over once more, but Madara catches him before he can.

“Thank you all! I had a lot of fun today! We should do this again when tensions aren’t so high!”

Everyone mutters a vague agreement, nodding once before they flicker into opposite directions.

Alone, Madara turns to him, his face eased of the years placed upon it. He looked so young.  

Good.

“Come. We must return, too, and see if your brother is competent.”

“Hey! Yours is in charge too!”

“Yes, but Izuna is quite adept—”

Abruptly, Madara turns and trips over a small stool he made hours ago. A place for Madara to rest while he built the looming structure behind them. Noticeable, it should have been, yet the Uchiha doesn’t see it.

Hashirama reaches out to catch his lover, but misses, and Madara falls.  

To the ground.

Uchiha Madara.

Alarms flare.

The Uchiha staggers to a stand again before Hashirama can gather his bearings, and he sobers himself with a quick swipe of a glowing green hand. No longer inebriated, he stares.

Madara glares at the stool, but—

Not really.

He’s staring beside it, Hashirama notes upon a closer inspection, and a sudden realization dawns. Abruptly, his stomach turns because I can’t be true. It can’t. Of all the people, all the beings—

“Madara… can you not see?”

His lover’s shoulders tense, and there’s no reply.

Heart sinking, he stares. 

Unfathomable. Incomprehensible. 

Uchiha Madara is blind.  

But—

How?

Why?  

“My Love—”

“I don’t need your pity!”

Heart in his throat, he steps forward. 

Madara glares at him, but now he can see how off it is. Just barely so. Unnoticable, really, even to him, but—

Once he sees it, he can’t unsee it.

He cups a pale cheek, and black eyes fall to the ground between them.

“My Love, my life, my Madara, how?”

The jaw beneath his palm flexes and unflexes as Madara exhales harshly through his nose.

“Sweetheart…”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. I lied to you,” the Uchiha states, looking up again.

Something in Hashirama twists and turns, but he lets it roll off his shoulders with ease. A sudden memory, a sudden realization.

What if… I’m hiding something from you?  

This is what has been plaguing Madara. This is what has been eating him, and Hashirama was none the wiser.

Chasting himself, his thumb swipes softly beneath a black eye.

Madara’s glare wavers.

“You would have,” he states, fully believing his words. “Just when you thought it appropriate.”

“Not until I was fully blind.”

“Or until I found out,” he counters, knowing his lover’s way of thinking. Madara must’ve been waiting for a slip-up, for something to key Hashirama into his secret without a verbal admittance. It’s on him for not seeing sooner.

“You’re too dense for that.”

“Am I?”

Black eyes fall again and he sighs softly.

“Because here I am. Knowing, so… tell me. Why can you not see?”

Another look, unfocused and—

Glistening.

His heart aches.  

“Our… Mangekyou ability. It’s the… strongest form our Sharingan can take, but… the most detrimental. As the price for the power to save the ones we love, we must sacrifice something of ourselves in the process.”

“Your sight,” he murmurs, stepping closer. Their noses brush as Madara nods, releasing a shaky breath.

“It depletes with each use of my Sharingan. I have maybe… three more uses, at most, before my sight leaves me completely.”

“My Love,” he murmurs, voice aching with the heartbreak he feels.

“Don’t pity—” the Uchiha snaps.

“It’s not pity,” he cuts off. “It’s remorse. Can I—Can I see? Can I see if I can heal it?”

“You can’t,” is Madara’s immediate reply. “The tablet says so.”

“Please,” he whispers and after a moment, Madara nods.

He pulls back, only slightly, and lifts his hand again, glowing green. Roaming across Madara’s closed eyelid, he aches at his findings. 

“Your… chakra network. It, um, it—”

“I know,” Madara states softly, eyes flicking open as his hand falls away. “I know, Hashirama.”

He’s crying. Gods, why is he crying when Madara—

Fingers wipe his cheek and his lover sighs.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“I can’t heal it. The nerve damage and—”

“I know—”

“I’m the best! Why can I not—”

“Because it is out of your control. It is my clan’s price we have to pay for power. It’s—”

“Not fair,” He cuts off. Madara’s already been blind once. Forcefully had his eyesight taken away, and now the fates—

Laughing, they must be.

It’s not fair!  

Oh, he’s angry. 

The trees around them shake in pulses and birds caw in alarm.

“Hashirama,” comes a soft voice. “It’s okay.”  

“It’s not! You shouldn’t have to console me when you’re—you’re—”

“My Love.”

He startles, unprepared to hear his affectionate nickname rolling off the other’s tongue.

A hand clasping his cheek pulls him down until their noses brush again. Close, comforting, and—

Madara smiles a sad smile, eyes flicking across his features but he can tell it’s in vain.

“Even if I am blind, I’ll never truly be sightless. I am a sensor first and foremost. I might not be able to pick up on things without chakra, but I can certainly see the ones that do have it. That’s how I knew where everyone and everything in that room was despite not—”

The Uchiha takes a breath, nuzzling him slightly.

His eyes fall shut as he basks in the feeling, the comfort.

Stupid, it is. He should be the one comforting Madara. Not—

“Is that why you didn’t want to be Hokage?” he asks in another sudden realization.

Madara scowls, but he won’t be dissuaded.

“Is that—”

“No,” Madara cuts off. “No, everything I said before, I meant it. You are the better leader. Perfect for it. Today proved that, so don’t discredit yourself.”

“Regardless of that, is your eyesight the reason you were so vehemently against the chair?”

Madara’s mouth opens, and he rushes.

“Don’t lie to me. Please.”

Teeth click together as the Uchiha’s jaw shuts. 

A deep breath before, “Yes.”

Eyes falling shut, he nods once.

Of course.

Of course.  

“Hashi—”

“I’m sorry.”

Bemused, Madara huffs. “What—”

“For everything. Not noticing, allowing it, taking the hat. Every—”

He’s jerked forward by a sudden fist in the front of his robes. He can’t resist the grunt that works its way out as he’s suddenly pulled down to a very angry Madara.

“Of all the levels of stupidity you are, that delusional is not it. You could not have helped me, you know this.”

“If I found out sooner—”

“It would have been the same,” Madara snarls, jerking him once. “You didn’t allow anything, just as you didn’t take from me. I didn’t want the hat then, nor do I want it now. If I weren’t halfway blind by the time the vote came around, perhaps I would’ve dipped my hand into the pot simply to mess with you and give you a sense of ease, but the results would be the same regardless. You are to be Hokage. The only one and no other.”

“But—”

“Let me speak!”

Hashirama’s mouth clicks shut and Madara sighs, eyes falling shut.

“I… love you. I love you so much that it consumes me whole. I love you as much as I love Izuna and that—that—” Madara cuts off, breath hitching and Hashirama stares.

And stares.

And stares.

Because that was—

He’s crying again as he pulls Madara to his chest.

It was nothing he didn’t know. He knew Madara loved him. A lot. Felt it even, but to hear it.

Nothing can replace that.

“I’m not done,” Madara mutters into his chest. 

Refusing to let him go, he slides his hand through dark locks.

“Like this.”

A tense moment before Madara relaxes with a sigh. Arms come up to wrap around his waist and he nuzzles his lover’s hair.

“Because I love you,” Madara starts, voice muffled from his clothes but still discernible. “Is why I wanted to be beside you. Protect you from—from the shadows. My eyesight might have prompted my change of opinion but once I realized, the more I liked it. You most certainly deserve to be in the spotlight. The sun that shines brighter than all the other stars combined with me. Your moon, who soaks your glow with increasing greed. From the darkness, I’d protect you. That’s the world I wished for.”

The words leave him stunned momentarily. 

He hadn’t thought of things as such. As them as such.

Sun and moon, huh?

“But—”

“There’s nothing you could have done, Hashirama. It’s congenital, something any Uchiha would get no matter the person, because of who we are. It’s incurable and I’ve made my peace with that. Can you?”

He chokes, pressing his love deeper into his arms.

“People will find out.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Madara murmurs. “But I suppose I should ask. Do you still want me as your advis—”

“I thought I was the one to ask stupid questions?”

A huff. “It’s a genuine question. You’ll be vulnerable, and people will question our strength.”

“I won’t be and let them. I’d raze the world for you.”

And Madara?

Well, he seems stunned a moment before fingers find themselves in Hashirama’s hair and his tongue in the Senju’s mouth.

He returns the embrace. Of course he does. It’s Madara, but he pulls back after a while, heat pooling in his gut when Madara attempts to follow.

“My Love.”

Their noses skim, nuzzling.

Madara hums softly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, shushing the other with the barest press of his fingers when Madara’s mouth opens to complain. “The Fates sure have been cruel to you, haven’t they?”

A furrowed brow, the barest quiver of a chin.

“You’re so strong. My Madara.” 

Arms around his neck, he inhales his soulmate’s scent. So familiar, so comforting.

“Let us return,” he says when there’s nothing left to speak and off they go.

Chapter Text

Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair...

—The Great War, Taylor Swift

The trip back takes a bit longer now that Madara is—

Madara is—  

Now that Madara can’t see.  

He trips now, such a drastic difference from the unparalleled shinobi Hashirama is accustomed to, and each time earns a scathing glare that says, Don’t speak.  

He doesn’t. Has to bite his tongue time and time again lest he fall to his lover’s wrath, and it makes him ache within.

Such a humor, the Fates have, for an Uchiha to fall blind.

How ironic.

How cruel.

He knows that Madara isn’t completely sightless, that he can still see light and shapes, but it’s the fact that he will be soon that eats Hashirama. Gnaws at him with jaws full of sharp teeth and saliva coated in anxiety and worry.

And he can’t stop it. The fact irks him more than anything. He spends the entire trip thinking of possibilities. Of theories and hypotheses, he could use or, at the very least, try. He would have to speak to Tobirama—the lords know that his brother’s intellect far excels his own—that, plus his knowledge of healing, they should be able to come up with something.  

They have to.

Madara follows closely behind him, footsteps landing on branches that he vacates mere seconds before, a perfect imitation of his trek. 

It saddens him, this knowledge Madara has, of being blind. How experienced. His tongue sours at thinking about how his lover has come to hone such instincts before he pushes it away.

Now isn’t the time to ponder that.

Madara’s footsteps slow, and he follows, glancing back toward the Uchiha, who stares past him with a frown.

“Your brother is waiting for us.”

Facing the front again, his heart sinks.

If Tobirama is waiting for them, something had to have happened.

Grabbing Madara’s wrist, he ignores the half-hearted sputtered protest as he pushes them through the thick brier until they land in front of the albino.

Tobirama straightens instantly, the grimace on his features falling blank as his hands fall behind his back. Shinobi, his stance his. His brother was always such a good soldier.

Hashirama’s frown tugs further down, and his brow furrows.

Despite how stoic Tobirama wishes to come off, he’s anything but. Bruises coat his face in colors of black and blue, cuts follow closely in shades of red, and Hashirama can only imagine what the albino looks like beneath his clothing and armor. By the way he’s standing, he can tell Tobirama’s favoring one side as well.

“Tobi—”

Briefly, fleetingly, Tobirama’s face eases just a bit when his pale red eyes befall them.

“Anija,” his brother cuts off, “We—”

“Let me look at you,” he all but snaps, letting Madara’s wrist go as he hovers over his brother instead.

“Touka already—”

“Touka isn’t me.”  

That quiets the youngest Senju.

Quietly, quickly, he works as a green glow ignites between them. Anger befalls him faster than it ever has, as he realizes the true extent of his brother’s damage.

Three cracked ribs, a fractured tibia, his cheekbone shattered, and wounds of various sizes cover his body. His brother shouldn’t even be conscious, let alone on his feet.

Touka did her best, but Hashirama will have to look this over extensively when they are settled.

Falling back, he has to know what caused this.

“What happened?”

Perhaps it’s the hard edge of his voice, but his brother’s eyes widen slightly before falling blank once more, and his shoulders square.

“Yes. There has been an attempted kidnapping. Three days ago, five unknown nin invaded our walls and targeted Uchiha Kagami. They apprehended the child, hefting him into the forest before alarms could sound. I was in sight of this abduction and followed promptly, defeating the enemy swiftly and rescuing the boy. He’s been returned to his family, and a hostage has been secured. The rest are dead.”

Fists clench as emotions overwhelm him, and Madara snarls in rage.

“What the hell?!”

Tobirama doesn’t even flinch at the Uchiha’s outburst, still in his soldier stance, and Hashirama bites back the ire coursing through his veins in favor of focusing completely on his brother.

Hand falling to a tense shoulder, he states, “You did well, Tobi. Thank you.”

A wide gaze blinks in shock, and he has to offer a smile in return. 

Despite his vexation, he is proud of his brother. To put his life on the line like that… He understands that Tobirama is a good man. He would do anything for a child, but to dive headfirst into danger for an Uchiha one is something unprecedented. It’s not like he expected his brother to hesitate, but perhaps, he didn’t expect the all-or-nothing either.

Hand falling away, he turns to his lover.

“My Love.”

Madara turns toward him, still seething, and he acknowledges the fury within him as well as he takes a breath.

“Let us investigate before we give way to our emotions. Kagami is safe and a prisoner procured. No one is dead, and the village is unharmed. Let us use our anger fruitfully.”

Slowly, leisurely, Madara adheres to his request. Stiff shoulders falling lax, his lover takes a breath, and he, too, takes one of his own before he turns back to his brother.

“Lead the way.”

*   *   *

His lips press thin as he notices the obvious limp in his brother’s gait, worry and concern floundering to the surface, and he bites his tongue on the words until he can no longer.

“Let me take another look,” he states as he ups his speed until he’s walking beside the other.

Tobirama barely spares him a glance as he replies, “Later, Anija. This takes precedence.”

“You’re hurt,” he tries.

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“Tobi—”

“After,” his brother repeats, sterner this time, and can’t help but blink, startled. 

He has no delusions about his brother’s stubbornness. Quite obstinate, that one is, especially where he is concerned; however, it’s different to hear such a hard tone when it comes to healing. It’s the one subject Tobirama never fights him on.

Lips thinning further, he knows when to pick his battles, and this wasn’t one. He can see in the determined set of his brother’s jaw and the set of his shoulders that he won’t adhere to his words, so he bites his tongue and falls back into line with Madara after a brief moment of silence.

Surprisingly, fingers caress his a moment before lacing together, and he glances over to find Madara refusing to meet his gaze. That brings a smile to his face despite all else, and he squeezes his lover’s hand in return.

“There is one last thing,” Tobirama says, drawing his attention back. A pale red eye glances in their direction before returning to the front.

Hashirama frowns.

“The Hyuuga sought refuge while you were away.”

“Impeccable timing,” is Madara’s dry reply.

“By the council’s vote, they were turned away with the promise of another congregation in three month’s time.”

That earns a surprised brow from him, and he can’t help but glance at the Uchiha who stares at Tobirama, unimpressed.

“What caused this?”

Tobirama hesitates briefly before saying, “Your brother revealed some… interesting information regarding the Hyuuga clan and their internal affairs. It was decided by the council that their ideals and our village’s do not align, and they were told to rethink their beliefs before approaching again. I… think they will. The head seemed pretty keen on securing a spot within our council.”

“Strong attracts strong,” he can’t help but supply as another swell of pride fills him at his brother’s words. 

Neither he nor Madara ever spoke of the Hyuuga clan’s curse mark branding, hoping to avoid a conflict before the time occurred. It is pleasing, however, to hear that this village they made with the ideals they wished stayed true and thought the same as them without their input.

Yes, very pleasing indeed.

“I’m proud of you, Tobi,” he states as the Hokage tower comes into view, drawing his eyes. He misses the way his brother tenses a moment before pale ears redden to ruby.

When they enter the office, they find Izuna looking quite worse for wear. There are dark, black bags beneath his eyes, his hair is disheveled, and it appears he missed this morning’s shave with the stubble that coats his jaw.

His gaze, however, lights up when he sees Madara, pushing to a stand with a sigh of relief.

“Aniki… thank the gods you’re back.”

“Is Kagami okay?” Madara prods.

Black eyes, so different than the ones he’s used to, flick to Tobirama and away briefly before a nod.

“I—yes. He’s been fussy. Clingy since it happened, but I put him down for a nap a few minutes ago. We should be okay for a while.”

His lover’s shoulders ease slightly, nodding.

“There is a prisoner, however?”

Izuna nods, side-stepping the desk as he ushers, “Yes, yes, follow me.”

The Uchiha take the lead, and Tobirama falls into line next to him.

“Anija, there’s one last thing you should know.”

He turns to find conflicting emotions on his brother’s face, and unease creeps upon him at the other’s frown.

“What is it?”

Tense, Tobirama hesitates a moment before, “The prisoner…” Red eyes fall to the ground almost reluctantly before looking up at him with resolve. “He’s Hatake.”

*   *   *

The prison is a dark, damp place. One of the last buildings they put together, for he didn’t think they’d really use it. Not so fast, at least.

The creaking of the door jars the captive, tied to a chair with his arms bound behind his back. His white hair stands out in the darkness, contrasting brightly. 

Madara tenses at the sight, most likely noting the light hair and fair features as his eyes fly to Tobirama, who refuses to meet anyone’s gaze.

A stone is lodged in his throat as he observes the beaten man.

Hatake…

Clearly so, just as how Tobirama shows the clan markings despite being a Senju by name. 

Their family.

Whereas the Uzumaki were allies by blood, the Hatake were by marriage. Due to Butsuma taking a Hatake woman as a wife—the clan head’s daughter, no less—their ties were supposed to be strong. When they failed to reply to his request about integration into Konoha, he was befuddled by their silence.

Now, even more so.

Although one of the only clans capable of going neck to neck with either the Senju or Uchiha, they’re not stupid. They know better than to face them both head-on.

So why—

A Yamanaka steps forth. The newest clan head, deigned in robes of green and cream, bows politely. Long blonde hair falls over his shoulder before he rights himself, pupil-less green eyes flicking toward him and Madara.

“Hokage-Sama. Uchiha-Sama,” comes the youthful voice. Young, he is, much like the Akimichi head. No doubt the new Nara head is the same.

“Wake him.”

Nodding once, Yamanaka Inoki steps forth, hands falling to a white, lax head.

A beat, and then dark gray eyes are blinking bleary before they focus on them. Recognition alights a moment before resignation takes its place, then all expression disappears.

“Hokage-Sama. Madara-Sama,” he greets, much like the Yamanaka previously.

“Name,” demands.

A brief silence, pursed lips, before, “Hatake Kuwa.”

A vague recognition alights in his mind, flaring the deep recesses, and he can’t put his finger on exactly why, so he shakes it away.

“Why did you attack?”

“In order to procure an Uchiha child.”

Flippant and void of emotions, the words roll from the Hatake’s mouth with ease. He’d think it was practiced if not for the fact that he knows both Madara and Tobirama are sensing for lies. When neither man interrupts, he hesitantly continues.

Madara does tense at the admission, though, but seems to bite his tongue on the explosion that’s forcing its way up his throat. 

“What for?”

The Hatake doesn’t speak and Madara steps forth, hand fisting in white hair.

“He asked you a question, nin.”  

Dark gray eyes stare up blankly, and Madara’s temper visibly rises.

Halting the outburst before it takes life, he steps forth and grabs the Uchiha’s wrist gingerly. 

Madara freezes a moment, black, steely eyes refusing to leave the Hatake as they glare their vexation before he shoves the man away and steps back. 

Hands falling together loosely, he breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

Kuwa notes the action with disinterested eyes.

“If you cannot tell us, we have other means to get the information from you. However, I can assure you, it will not be pleasant,” he states.

More silence.

With a flick of a few fingers, Inoki steps forth, his hands falling across a white head once more. A few moments then—

Screams.

Blood-curdling cries echo off the walls as Inoki’s ability works. The Yamanaka’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he digs, rooting through the deepest memories of the man. Invasive, the Yamanaka’s Mind Walking is. A secret of the clan only, it’s useful for interrogations as such.

After a while, the screams cease, and Inoki steps back. Sweat beads his pale brow as green eyes open, looking troubled.

“He’s been bound to silence. A sort of… seal.”

He tenses, but Inoki continues stoically.

“His memories are jumbled. Fragmented, most likely from this seal, but I do know that his intention was to get an Uchiha child, any child, and take them back alive.”

“Why?” Madara asks, voice deep and full of barely restrained anger.

“Kekki genkai are heavily desired by those without,” the Yamanaka replies.

Both Uchiha snarl, and he steps forth, interfering before they could get carried away.

“The Hatake require no need for a kekkei genkai. Their blood is already very powerful in its own right. The only clan to meet the Senju or Uchiha head-to-head with the probability of victory.”

Inoki nods, hands folding together.

“Yes, that is correct. They have no need for a kekki genkai, but their partners do.” The Yamanaka takes a breath and states, “As I stated before, this man’s memories are quite complex and confusing, but from what I’ve made out is that there is another body at play. Allied either by force or by agreement, I cannot say, but this person or people wanted the Uchiha’s dōjutsu for their own. That’s all I know.”

His blood runs cold at the thought, worry gnawing at him. The few moments of bliss, of peace, have been snuffed out with the actions of a Hatake, of family.  

Anger eats him hot and fierce. 

Just who thinks they can come into his village and disturb his people?

Troubled he is, and he knows Madara feels the same.

“Thank you,” he tells Inoki as he turns on his heel, tugging his lover behind.

Their brothers follow silently, and he leads them back to the Hokage office, shutting it swiftly and placing privacy seals against the openings.

Madara paces anxiously, angrily, while Izuna seethes quietly near the window. Both Uchiha are swathed with emotions, so it’s Tobirama who breaks the silence.

“Why Hatake?”

Glancing over hesitantly, he finds his brother with his eyes glued to the ground.

“Why would they do that?”

His lips thin momentarily before he speaks, “Inoki-San said he didn’t know if it was willing or—”

“Willingly or not, they’re the ones who invaded. They’re the ones I killed, Anija. I thought our alliance with them was fine?”

He tenses briefly before he forces himself ot relax, but that second was long enough for his brother to take notice.

“Tobi—”

“What are you keeping from me?”

Chewing his lip, he debates. 

Truthfully, the alliance with the Hatake has been silent for some years. He had hoped to mend what had been strained, but they refused to comply. Or, perhaps, could not, given this new revelation. Regardless, their silence remained, and their bond all but severed. 

He grits his teeth.

“When Mother married into our clan, she forewent all relations with the Hatake. A treaty we have, but… it is flimsy and with her death, almost void. Why do you think we haven’t been to the Hatake compound since we were children? I had hoped that when I sent word about Konoha that they would join and we could rekindle what had been lost, but they never replied. Maybe this is why.”

Anger mars his brother’s features, or perhaps it’s frustration; either way, Tobirama fumes quietly, and he can do nothing but let it fester. He’s learned some time ago to let his brother process things on his own rather than to force him to speak on it. It’s how he worked.

“We will keep the prisoner alive until we figure out what is going on,” he states despite the Uchiha’s twin looks of displeasure. “Perhaps he may be more useful if we get whatever seal is on him off.”

No one disagrees, and he nods once.

“The children will be monitored at all times, no matter their blood. Despite every precaution, the Hatake managed to get within our walls, and that needs to be rectified. It seems that even in peace, we must guard like we are in war.”

He frowns, displeased by the way things are going, but… it could be worse. Kagamai could be kidnapped. Could be dead right now, but he is not. He is at home and he is resting, and Hashirama must admit that it is great all things considered.

Still, he doesn’t like people entering his village so freely. Dislikes the fact that it was breached while he was gone.  

At least his brother was there.

Speaking of—

“I want to tend to your wounds now.”

Tobirama glares defensively, and Hashirama notes the way Izuna eyes his brother with an unreadable look.

“He’s right,” the littlest Uchiha states after a moment, offering the barest hints of a smirk. “You look horrible.”

Where he expects Tobirama to react with anger or to snub, his brother appears startled instead, blinking in utter surprise as his pale red eyes watch Izuna turn away toward Madara.

“Aniki, you should check on Kagami. He’s been asking for you.”

Madara sighs, rubbing his head. “Yes, I suppose I should.”

Hashirama nods. “Okay, good. We’re done here until we can turn up with a lead.”

“I’ll look into the seal,” Tobirama states, walking toward him, still very much limping.

“Yes, I’ll ask around too,” he murmurs, taking his brother’s arm into his hands. The green glow of his healing chakra alights, and immediately, he can see Tobirama’s shoulders ease.

*   *   *

Two tense weeks pass, and they make no progress. The Hatake prisoner is still as mute and useless as he was the first night, and the seal even more confusing. They found it, bound across his tongue, but—

Hashirama has no idea what he’s looking at. Not even with all the texts collected from the Uzumaki over the years have anything even remotely similar. He’s at a dead end.

So, he sends a correspondence to Mito, asking for her assistance yet again. 

Amused, she writes back, inquiring about the details, and the next month flies past with the last words from her being I’ll look into it.   

Truthfully, he’s becoming unsettled. Knowing that there’s someone out there willing to attack his village so frivolously…

It makes him anxious.

But he trusts her. So much. She is what he would consider a best friend to be like. Someone to confide in, be it his woes and sorrows or his excitments and exclaimations. She listens to it all and likewise tells him her own stories. 

It’s how he knows the Uzumaki are suffocating to her. Unhappy she is, and he knows that she’s close to breaking.

Come to us, he tells her.

It’s not time, she replies, and that’s the end of it. She never allows it to go further than that, and he must accept it.

Maybe that’s why her weeks of silence are bothering him. What if something has happened to her? What if she’s done something wrong? What if she’s hurt?  

He knows the Uzumaki clan head, and he’d like to assume he’d never do anything to harm his daughter, but… he also knows from Mito’s letters just how oppressive they are. Much like the Nara’s old way of thinking, women are meant for breeding and housework. None that he knows of thus far have become shinobi, Mito being the closest and only because she did most of her training in secret.

Healing, she was interested in, and one of the first things they bonded about. He taught her as much as he could without physically being present, and likewise, she told him about fuinjutsu. It seems that, regardless of whether one is a man or a woman, an Uzumaki learns sealing. 

Children’s laughter rings in through the open window, drawing his attention from Mito’s last letter, and he sighs. Letting the paper fall from his grasp back to his desk, he pushes his worries away. Another time. He’s sure she’s fine. 

She’s strong. Don’t doubt her, he tells himself. She’d be pissed if she knew he was.

Another tinkling laugh, and his thoughts shift.

There has been one interesting development that’s happened over the course of these six weeks, he supposes. The addition of a small head of unruly midnight black curls and snow white skin deep within the Senju compound walls.

At first, he thought nothing of it. He was ecstatic even because the sight led him to believe the Uchiha and Senju were truly coming together. That the children were finally free of all burdens and flocking to one another’s homes as comrades.

Then he realized the child wasn’t coming to play with others his age but to shadow an adult. A specific one. A white-haired one.

Utterly befuddled, he had watched from the background as this Uchiha youth trailed after his brother as a newborn fawn would its mother, and how, more importantly, his brother didn’t refute.  

No, in fact, Tobirama didn’t seem to mind the attention, even, which—

Odd.

Tobirama is, by all means, a proud man. Undeniably so, but… he is surprisingly humble as well. Growing up, his brother’s attitude always mystified him. He never understood Tobirama’s contrasting behaviors. Always so prideful of his own abilities, yet he constantly turned a deaf ear to the elder’s appraisals, replying that they were the result of hard work rather than blood-borne gifts he’s had since birth.

It made Hashirama feel just slightly wrong for the pride that swelled within him when their father praised him, instead, commending him for his abilities back when he was too young to really understand the true meaning of strength.

Thinking on the startling relationship, he supposes that matters of life and death do tend to bond people, and what stronger bond is there than a protector and the protected? The savior and the saved? It’s no secret that the Uchiha revere strength, too, and Tobirama is certainly not weak. It’s no surprise, really, that Kagami flocked to him as such.

Tobirama’s lack of refusal is surprising until he recalls these last few weeks, and he realizes.

His brother is changing. Subtly, he will amend, enough so that he never realized until Tobirama garnered the Uchiha protégé. Now, he registers just how quiet his brother’s been. He’s not as vocal about his distrust of the Uchiha, nor is he as adamant about their disloyalty.